The Christmas Gift
by Jlocked
Summary: When Sherlock makes their flat explode, the boys have to stay with Mycroft for a long time. How will John make sure they don't get kicked out? A Christmas story of 30 days (Well... 27 as it turns out). A Christmas collaboration with the magnificent The Lady of Purpletown.
1. Chapter 1

**The Christmas Gift**

Day one: December 6th

Sherlock glanced at John, who had been staring out the window ever since they got into the car. "Are you going to be like that all month?" he asked. "I already said I was sorry. What more do you want?"

John sighed. "Don't you see that this is something else than simply... saying something wrong or creating smelly smoke with an experiment? It's our home. Mrs. Hudson had to go to her sister. Who knows when we can return to the flat." He shook his head.

"30 days," Sherlock said, promptly. "31 if the beam proves to be compromised."

"30 days," John repeated, "including Christmas _and_ New Year."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. That part is unfortunate. I still say we should have gotten a room somewhere. I really do not think your solution is... advisable..."  
"I think it's very kind of Mycroft that he even wants to do this. It saves us a lot of money," John said.

"Yes, very nice," Sherlock sneered. "And he will not at all be smug about finally getting us to come to his place for Christmas..."

"If you get over you pride, you'll see it was the best solution," John said with a small shrug.

Sherlock studied him for a moment. "How about we give it a day or two and see if you still think it was the best solution?"

"Sure," John answered, looking out the window again.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, then got out his phone and began texting.

John glanced at his hands. "What are you up to?"

"Keeping in touch," Sherlock said casually, not looking up from his phone.

"With your many friends?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Acquaintances," Sherlock replied, smiling a little.  
"Right. Listen, don't ruin this before we even get to his house, okay?"

"Ruin what?" Sherlock asked, making his best innocent eyes.

John glared at him. "Don't let us be kicked out of the house by tonight just because you are so stubborn."

"He won't kick us out," Sherlock said. "He's even more stubborn than me."

"Yeah, but he can make things rather unpleasant. I'd like a quiet Christmas for once," John said, already feeling a little exasperated.

Sherlock reached over and took his hand. "John... If you wanted a quiet Christmas, you wouldn't be with me, would you?"

...

When they arrived at Mycroft's mansion, they simply dumped their bags (which contained pretty much everything they had been able to save from the flat) in their room and went back down for dinner.

Mycroft was waiting by the table, indeed looking smug. John wished he wouldn't, as he knew well enough it would make things worse.

Sherlock glared and greeted him with a curt, "Brother," before sitting down, unfurling his napkin with a snap of his wrist and placing it in his lap.

John attempted a smile at Mycroft.

"Is everything in the room to your liking?" Mycroft inquired.

"Everything but its location," Sherlock replied, reaching for the water and pouring himself a large glass.

"Sherlock," John mumbled. "It's fantastic," he told Mycroft. "Thank you."  
Mycroft sent his brother a disturbed look, before he smiled back at John and sat down. "I'm glad to hear that."

Sherlock reached over and took Mycroft's glass. He held both glasses up in front of him and began pouring water from one to the other.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked wearily.  
"Not that again." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Training," Sherlock said. "Hand to eye coordination. Very effective. Should prevent today's setback from recurring."

"If all this... training... didn't help you in the past, I'd give up, brother dear," Mycroft said, while a steaming plate of stew was being put in front of him.

"It _did_ help me," Sherlock said calmly. "But I was distracted." He glanced over at John, smiling.

John huffed and mumbled something that sounded like 'not my fault'.  
"Then you should have been more focused. Enjoy your meal," Mycroft said smoothly.

Sherlock didn't respond. Having successfully poured all the water into Mycroft's glass without spilling a drop, he held the glasses further away from him and then repeated the process.

"In fact, I would like some water, and your food is getting cold," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged, finished pouring the water slowly and then handed Mycroft the empty glass. "I'm not hungry," he said.  
"And you're not on a case either. Eat," John said, right before stuffing his own mouth.

Sherlock send him a petulant glare but then picked up his fork and began eating slowly.  
"Thank you," John said softly.  
"So... How did you actually make your flat explode this time?" Mycroft asked, looking interested.

"John," Sherlock said, smiling a little.

"Sherlock was mixing explosives," John said quickly.

"But Sherlock has been mixing explosives since he was seven," Mycroft frowned. "You'd think you'd have gotten the hang of it by now, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, one would think so. But then again, I did not have such a charming flatmate back then. Quite the contrary, actually."

"It sounds like we should mark John as a chemical hazard on our lists," Mycroft said earnestly.

John rolled his eyes. "It really wasn't my fault. I didn't know Sherlock had suddenly started performing an experiment."

"And I didn't know you had other plans," Sherlock countered. "I thought you were going to take care of things in the shower. You always do that on Fridays."

John raised an eyebrow at him and Mycroft cleared his throat.

Sherlock seemed completely unfazed and continued eating.

The rest of dinner passed relatively uneventful and John almost dared to feel at ease.

Suddenly Sherlock put down his fork and stood up. "I'm done," he said, and turned to leave.

John looked up at him and sighed. "I'm not. If you're going, at least start unpacking our stuff, will you?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "You're so cute," he said before disappearing out the door. A moment later he could be heard running up the stairs.

John gave Mycroft a very sharp 'that never happened'-look and got up as well. "I'd better go make sure he doesn't do anything... Sherlocky."  
Mycroft nodded. "Goodnight, John."

John entered the room just after Sherlock had closed the door behind himself.

Sherlock had already jumped on the bed, all his attention focused on his phone on which he was eagerly typing something.  
"Really, who are you texting?" John asked, bending to pick up the bags.

Sherlock looked up at him and smiled. "Jealous?" he asked, teasingly.

"Curious and a little cautious," John corrected.

"I'm just answering old mail," Sherlock said. "You know, cases I never bothered to take, old 'friends' wanting a favour."

"Right. Of course you couldn't do that in an unexploded flat, so you have to do it now. I see," John said.

"Well, I can't work on my experiments, can I? And I'm going to need something to do if I'm not going to go insane in this place."

John put one of the bags down on a chair and the other on the table. "You did have unfinished business..." he said.

Sherlock looked up at him and smiled. "I suppose I did," he said. "But I wasn't sure if I would get to see to that today or not. Considering..."

John snorted. "I did all the... preparations. You're simply not getting out of it."

Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough," he said and opened the top button of his shirt. "Where do you want me to start?"

John smirked. "Just stay where you are, but put your phone away."

With a grin, Sherlock leaned over to put his phone on the small side table. Then he looked up at John expectantly.

John smirked and opened his trousers. "It really was a shame you were busy."

"Next time you change your habits, you really should let me know," Sherlock said, removing his jacket.

"I wanted to surprise you," John answered, pulling his jumper over his head.

Sherlock laughed. "You did."

John snorted and stepped out of his trousers. "I didn't want to literally take the roof off our bedroom."  
"Then you obviously underestimated the effect you have on me," Sherlock said, barely suppressing a giggle.

John laughed. "Get naked and sit up against the wall, you idiot," he ordered with a fond smile.

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock said and quickly undressed. As he leaned against the wall he held out his hands. "Like this?"

"Yes." John licked his lips and took off his pants, then sat down in Sherlock's lap and kissed him.

Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around him, returning the kiss eagerly.


	2. Chapter 2

Day 2 – December 7th

John sighed and snuggled closer, nuzzling Sherlock's shoulder. Thanks to the thick curtains, the room was still completely dark and even Sherlock would have to admit that Mycroft's guest room held an excellent bed. Combined with the memory of the previous night, it made John feel very comfortable and relaxed, even if it wasn't quite like home. He hummed.

Sherlock sighed and rolled over, wrapping his arms around John. "Morning..." he mumbled.

"Morning," John smiled, kissing him softly.

Sherlock returned the kiss lazily.

John gently stroked his shoulder and back. "Did you sleep well?"

Sherlock nodded. "Okay," he said. "Though the bed is a bit too soft."

John snorted. "It's hard to make you completely happy. I think the bed is just fine," he smiled, pushing Sherlock over on his back

Sherlock grunted softly. "You make me happy," he said, smiling at John.

John chuckled. "I plan to..." He kissed his neck.

"Again...?" Sherlock groaned, sounding slightly exasperated. "What's gotten into you these days?"

John pulled back. "Don't you want to?"

Chuckling, Sherlock pulled him down for a kiss that more than answered that question.

John grinned. "Well then." He kissed Sherlock deeply, stroking his hair, before he kissed down his neck again.

Sherlock put his hands on John's hips, as he closed his eyes and hummed softly. "I love these lazy mornings," he muttered. "Almost as much as I love you."

John giggled and kissed his chest. "Me too." He flicked his tongue over a nipple, but instead of the low moan he expected, he heard a loud buzz.

"Sherlock, your phone," he groaned.  
Sherlock promptly, though gently, pushed John away so he could roll over and reach his phone. He read the message, then jumped off the bed and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

"Sherlock?" John asked with a frown.

"Be right back," Sherlock called, closing the door behind him.

"What's going on?" John asked, getting up. "What's more important than... what we were doing?"

"Work," Sherlock called through the door and then turned on the shower.

John groaned. "Do we have a case?"

No answer came.

"Do you want me to join you?" John tried.

Still, only the splattering of the water could be heard, so John gave up and sat down on the bed again.

After a while, Sherlock came out, completely naked except for the towel that almost covered his head as he was drying his hair with one hand while texting with the other.  
John glared at the phone. "Anything I can help with?"

"Oh, no," Sherlock said, smiling from under the towel. "It's really very simple."

"Then why were you running away?" John stepped closer and wanted to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist, but Sherlock turned away.

"I needed to think," Sherlock said, continuing to type. Then suddenly he put the phone down and turned to face John again. "Now where were we?" he asked, grinning.

Someone knocked on the door and John groaned in frustration. "A moment," he called, quickly wrapping a dressing gown around himself and throwing another to Sherlock.

"Breakfast, Mr Holmes, Mr Watson," it sounded from the other side of the door. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock let the robe hang loosely over his shoulders, but did turn his back to the door as he answered. "Go ahead."

The young man that had served their food the previous evening entered and put a large plate on the table.

John smiled at him. "Thanks."

"Enjoy your breakfast." The man made a small bow and left.

Sherlock glanced over at the plate. "I'm not hungry," he said, and let the robe fall to the floor as he went over to look through his bag for something to wear.

John looked back at him. "Is it really necessary to get dressed?" he asked as he saw Sherlock pull out a shirt.

Sherlock glanced over at him. "I thought you were going to eat," he said, putting the shirt down again.

"It can wait... Most of it is cold, anyway," John said, licking his lips as he let his eyes wander over Sherlock's body.

Grinning, Sherlock shifted a little, almost posing. "As will I be if I keep standing like this."

John smirked. "Oh no, we can't let _you_ get cold..." He took his hand and dragged him back to bed.

Chuckling, Sherlock followed, diving under the covers and pulling John along. "Much better," he said, snuggling close.

John kissed him happily.

Sherlock took hold of John's shoulders and rolled them over, so that John was lying on top of him.

"You really do want me to continue where we were, hmm?" John teased.

"I wouldn't mind," Sherlock said, spreading his legs a little.

John smirked. "You did break the mood a little."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, grinning, as he pulled John down for a kiss.

John pulled back and kissed his lower stomach instead.

Sherlock closed his eyes, content to just lie there and enjoy John's touch.  
John smiled up at him and slowly took Sherlock's cock in his mouth.  
Sherlock moaned softly, relaxing. But then he opened one eye and turned his head as his phone buzzed again.

John tensed. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock looked down at him and smiled. Then he closed his eyes again and tried to relax.

"Good choice," John mumbled, before pushing up Sherlock's thighs and sucking him again, while teasing a finger between the cheeks of his arse.

Once he was convinced John was sufficiently focused on the task at hand, Sherlock slowly reached out and moved his phone from the table onto the bed. Then he reached down to run his fingers through John's hair. "That feels so good," he purred.

John smiled up at him.

"I love you," Sherlock said, rolling his hips as if begging for more.

John focused on what he was doing again, alternately sucking harder and swirling his tongue around the head of Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock groaned louder and for a moment forgot about the phone. But then it buzzed again as if insisting on claiming his attention. He pushed it a little and turned his head so that he could read the display.

John chose that moment to suck even harder and slip his finger into his hole.

Sherlock gasped as his eyes went out of focus and he had to grasp the phone and bring it closer to read the number at the end of the message.

Suddenly, John pulled back. "Are you checking your phone?" he asked, his eyes full of disbelief.

Sherlock immediately looked back at him, dropping the phone. "... No..." he said, sheepishly. "Of course not."

John sighed and shook his head, disappointment clear on his face. "I can't believe you," he said, getting off the bed.

Sherlock sat up. "John," he said. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to find out if it was something important. It kept distracting me that I didn't know..."

"If even a blowjob can't be interesting enough to distract you, I give up," John said, picking up one of the bags and disappearing into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Sherlock groaned and threw himself down on the bed, covering his eyes with his hands. Then, after a moment, he reached for his phone.

...

"So why exactly would you suddenly need two rooms?" Mycroft asked, frowning as the young man poured him a glass of wine to go with his dinner.

Sherlock glanced in John's direction but did not speak.

"Just... Is it possible?" John asked.

"Theoretically, yes..." Mycroft said. "But it will be a lot more work for Freddie here, and I thought you had everything you needed."

John squirmed in his chair. "We had, it's just... something personal."

"I snore," Sherlock said flatly, and then took a large sip of his water.

"Do you, now? And John didn't know that before now? I'm surprised," Mycroft said sarcastically.

Sherlock huffed. "Apparently I snore more when the bed is too soft. I am simply to... fit... to lie comfortably in such beds."

"I'm sorry. I have the same bed in the other guestroom, though," Mycroft pointed out.

"Yeah, but there I can't hear him." John pressed his lips together.

"You must be really bad, Sherlock." Mycroft actually looked a little amused.

Sherlock smirked and nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

Day 3 - December 8th

John lay staring at the ceiling. It was well past 3 in the morning, but he hadn't slept for one second. It just felt wrong, lying here on his own. It had been months since he had slept alone, and every time he would discover again how much he hated it.

On the other hand, there was not much he could do. Giving in to Sherlock would feel like losing his game. Maybe he had been overreacting a little, knowing how a case could demand Sherlock's attention. But then it was weird he wouldn't tell John anything about it, didn't even try thinking out loud, and let himself be distracted once again by John.

He turned over on his side for what felt like the fiftieth time. Probably they just had to talk about it. But either Sherlock was asleep at this hour, or he would still be _busy_. John huffed. If only he could sleep and forget about Sherlock for a moment, but that seemed to be impossible.

In the end, he gave up. Too bad if Sherlock was for once sleeping, but if necessary, John was going to explain to him what exactly had bothered him that much, and then he was going to sleep next to Sherlock whether he liked it or not. He nodded to himself and got up to find his dressing gown. Then he opened the door to the pitch-dark corridor.

He really couldn't see a thing. Stretching out his left hand before him, he slowly walked towards the door on the other side of the corridor, and he could barely suppress a gasp when his fingertips suddenly brushed against something soft.

Then he took a step closer and recognised Sherlock's scent. Before he knew it, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around him and pulled him against his chest. John sighed and folded his arms around Sherlock's back, nuzzling the fabric of the other man's dressing gown. For a long moment, they just stood there hugging, without speaking a word.

"Missed me?" Sherlock whispered, a little too smugly.

"Oh, shut up," John said, pulling back. "What were _you_ doing here anyway?"

"Missed you," Sherlock answered and leaned down for a kiss.

John chuckled. "Let's go to bed. It's cold here."

"Your place or mine?" Sherlock asked, finding John's cheek and stroking it gently with his fingertips.

"Ours," John said, taking his hand to lead him back to the door he came from.

Sherlock followed, giggling a little. "Oh, so we're moving back together?" he teased.

"Well, if your phone won't start to miss you, that is," John answered, opening the door.

"It won't," Sherlock said. "It's in my pocket."

John sighed. "You do understand why I was angry, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. I should have waited."

John was quiet for a moment, hesitating if he should say what was on his mind. As he got back in the bed, he decided he would. "You know," he began, "before we got together I was sometimes wishing that I could be enough for once. You know, to keep your brilliant mind busy. Bit ridiculous, but it's true. And then, well, I found a way. But then, yesterday, when you were so clearly distracted from what I was doing, I must admit I snapped a little." He lay down on his back, not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock studied him and considered his answer. "I'm sorry," he said. "You _are_ enough. But this place gets to me. I don't want to be here."

"It's just another bed we can be in, together," John said with a little shrug. "It's not like we can go back home. Just try to come to terms with it?" He pulled Sherlock closer.

Sherlock nodded. "I'll try," he promised and kissed him.

…

Sherlock shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. "What exactly is the purpose of this?" he asked sulkily as they walked through the rather extensive 'garden' behind Mycroft's house.

"Getting some air," John shrugged. "Or do you mean the function of that little brick wall over there? Because then I have no idea."

In spite of his best efforts, a small snort escaped Sherlock. "What do we need air for?" he asked.

"Breathing. I know it's not exactly your favourite pastime, but it's kind of necessary."

"We can breathe inside. Or in the city. I'm pretty sure they have air in hotels these days."

John chuckled. "Probably, but you never know."

"So," Sherlock said. "If the only purpose is breathing, we might as well go there, right?"

"Come on, you don't even try," John smiled. "You know it saves us a lot of money, and as long as your brother allows us as much privacy as he does now, it's not too bad here. I think his garden, well… park… is quite beautiful."

"Tedious," Sherlock answered. "Just bushes and grass. Not even any decent trees." He looked down at John and grinned.

John smirked. "Maybe that's for the best."

Sherlock cocked his head and studied him for a moment. "For the best?" he said, pensively. "A lot of things seem to be for the best, these days."

John shrugged. "I know it's not our usual lifestyle, but it won't do us any harm to try it."

"And you think staying here for a month is our best option?"

"I guess."

"How about a little game then? Or a bet, if you like."

John chuckled. "I'm not betting with you that Mycroft will ban us from his house. It will only make you even worse."

Sherlock laughed. "That's almost better than my suggestion. I would merely propose that if you change your mind about us staying here, you have to give me exactly what I want for Christmas."

"What _do_ you want for Christmas?" John asked, grinning.

"I'll tell you if I win," Sherlock leaned down and kissed his nose.

John snorted. "It sounds dangerous. Betting with you without properly knowing what the stakes are."

"So you're in?"

"Of course."


	4. Chapter 4

**Day 4 - December 9th**

Sherlock rolled over for the tenth time in half an hour and groaned loudly. "I can't sleep in this bed," he declared. "It' too soft and too big."

John snorted. "Maybe you're just not tired after being lazy for a whole day. I know something to cure that…"

Sherlock sat up. "I can't shag in this bed. It's too soft and too big. I feel like I'm in danger of drowning you in the mattress."

"Yes, you can. You've proven it," John chuckled. "I promise I'll be fine." He leaned over to kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled away and got out of the bed. "No," he huffed. "I don't want to. It's not as fun as in our own bed."

John sighed. "The bed you blew up, you mean."

"I did not blow it up. It's just a bit scorched. Some fresh sheets and a bit of paint and it'll be good as new… Or at least as good as usual."

"Okay, but we can't go there now. We can as well enjoy the possibilities we have now," John said.

"And what are they? Obviously neither sleeping nor shagging."

John shrugged. "Well, nagging on and on about it isn't an option either, if you ask me. Let's just play a game. Mycroft has a chessboard in his living room," he suggested.

Sherlock perked up slightly. "Yes, that should be good for a ten minute distraction. Fifteen if I'm nice."

John smiled and grabbed his dressing robe. "Come on, then."

…

Sherlock checked his watch. "7½ minutes," he announced. "Now what?"

"Play again?" John suggested.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "Do you think your tactics have improved over the last three minutes?"

John sighed. "Maybe. I can try to think of something to deceive you?"

"No," Sherlock said. "You can't."

"Alright then. What do you want to do?" John asked.

"Leave," Sherlock said, looking out of the large windows into the darkness outside.

John rolled his eyes. "Well, we can go out tomorrow."

Sherlock sighed. "It _is_ tomorrow. Mycroft will be getting up in an hour or two." Then he got to his feet. "Let's go out now."

John groaned. "To do what?"

"Not be here?"

"No. Rather in the freezing cold. And it's raining. I really don't feel like going out now. Just go to bed." John yawned.

"You go to bed," Sherlock said, heading for the stairs. "I'm going out."

John followed him wearily. "If you're sure."

"Of course I am," Sherlock said as he let his robe slide off his shoulders the moment he was inside their room. He headed for the wardrobe and began picking something to wear.

John's eyes wandered over his back and he licked his lips. He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind him. "You're gorgeous," he purred.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and smiled at him. "I know," he said and then bent down to put on his pants.

John put his hand on Sherlock's arse before he had the chance to pull his pants up. He bent to kiss his back. "I'll miss you."

Sherlock pulled his pants up to his thighs then waited for John to remove his hand. "I won't be gone long. A few days at the most."

"Days? You're seriously considering to leave me here for _days_?" John said, not taking away his hand and stepping even closer.

"I told you. I'm not staying in this house for longer than I absolutely have to. I can keep myself busy wandering the city for a few days and then I'll probably be able to sleep. Even here."

John shook his head. "What about the shower?"

"You're suggesting I sleep in the shower?"

John snorted. "Yeah, sure, go ahead. Idiot. You said you can't shag in the bed. No one says we can only shag _there_." His hand wandered a little down.

"We've done showers," Sherlock said, leaning a little into John's touch. "Maybe…" He looked around the room. "The window sill?"

"Why not," John said, kissing the back of Sherlock's neck. "As long as we keep the curtains closed…"

"You're no fun," Sherlock teased as he turned to face John, put his hands on his shoulders and pulled him along as he backed towards the window.

"I hope to change that opinion very soon," John chuckled, leaning in to kiss him.

"We'll see," Sherlock said, arching his back a little as he bumped into the window sill. He took hold of it and lifted himself up, wrapping his legs around John's waist. "I doubt anyone would see us at this hour anyway," he said before kissing John deeply.

John moaned softly and stroked up Sherlock's thighs until he reached his pants and pulled them off again.

Sherlock giggled, holding onto the sill.

"Believe me, this will be a lot more interesting than going out," John promised, nipping at Sherlock's neck as this time he allowed his hands to stroke up to his arse.

"Yeah?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly breathless. "Going out can be _very_ interesting…"

John leaned in, pressing their cocks together. "But as you said, Mycroft doesn't have any oaks…"

"No, but the parks in the city do. And there are hotel rooms. And alleys…." Sherlock moaned.

John slowly moved against him, smirking a little. "Next time we're out you can show me how creative you are," he purred in Sherlock's ear. "But right now I suggest we're not going anywhere."

Sherlock grinned. "No, this will do. For now."

John grabbed his arse and pulled him even closer, kissing him passionately and still moving teasingly slow against him. Finally, when Sherlock could take no more, John took pity on him, prepared him quickly and proceeded to fuck him hard and deep until he was clutching at the curtains, hanging on for dear life. When John finally came, Sherlock was a whimpering mess, clinging to him and panting for breath.

John eased out and helped Sherlock to the bed.

The detective was asleep in a matter of seconds.

That day, they didn't make it outdoors. Having triggered ideas of all the possibilities they had inside the house, John was happy to keep Sherlock busy. They had started the day rather conventionally in the bed, moved on to test if this shower was as good for shagging as the one at home, gave each other a quick, secret blowjob in the living room without Freddie even noticing, and then, knowing that Mycroft was out for the whole day, they had a glorious shag on his desk.

Having made sure that all the stacks of paper there were neatly back in place when they left, it seemed that he hadn't even deduced what had happened. He kept giving them questioning looks during dinner, wondering why they both looked so tired and smug, but Sherlock and John just grinned at each other and went to bed early.


	5. Chapter 5

**Day 5 - December 10th**

"So, where do you want to go?" John asked as they left the house.

Sherlock took in a couple of deep breaths and then laughed. "Anywhere..." He looked around. "Let's just jump the first bus that passes. See where we end up."

John looked up at him. "A bus? Really?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A cabbie would expect us to name a destination."

"That's true... But do you really think this part of the country has buses?" John looked back at Mycroft's mansion.

Sherlock laughed. "Just a 10 minute walk that way and we're back amongst common folk."

"Alright." John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and they walked towards the bus stop.

"Let's run away," said Sherlock, smiling mischievously.

"No one's behind us," John smirked.

Sherlock huffed. "That's not what I mean. Let's just take off. Go far away. Not come back before some time next year."

John snorted. "You'd miss London and its cases after less than a week."

"There are other cities. We could go to... Berlin..." Sherlock suggested, though his enthusiasm was already waning.

John looked amused. "And do what?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sure they have bad guys in Berlin. And cases."

"My German isn't so fantastic. They could be telling me they're kidnapping you and I'd think they're trying to help. Doesn't seem a good idea," John shrugged.

"I speak German," Sherlock said. "You just have to smile and nod."

"Nah, don't feel like it." John grinned.

Sherlock pouted. "You're so selfish."

John giggled. "I'll make it up later."

Sherlock pulled him a bit closer. "And how do you plan to do that?" he asked, letting his voice drop a little.

"Oh, I'll be creative."

"I thought it was my turn to be creative," Sherlock said, nudging his shoulder.

"Then by all means, be creative when we get back."

"Oh, I'm not going to wait that long," Sherlock said with a grin as he saw the bus approach.

They walked a little faster to be at the stop in time. "Did you see where it's going?" John asked as he entered it.

"Nope," Sherlock answered as he guided him to the back of the upper deck. "But I'm sure we'll find out. Eventually."

John smiled. "Who'd have thought you were such a romantic at heart. Running off to the unknown with your boyfriend."

"Yes, having to live with his brother can motivate a man to become the strangest things." Sherlock laughed and then leaned over and kissed John's cheek.

"As long as you know that we _are _returning tonight," John smirked.

Sherlock pulled away, sulking a little. "Sure," he muttered.

John giggled. "I'm just not letting you win this bet. I do wish to get you something for Christmas you'll like, but I'm not wrapping you any dead bodies or whatever you'd ask for."

"Why would you want to wrap them?" Sherlock asked, frowning slightly.

John snorted. "That's what people do with Christmas presents."

"Kill people?"

"No, not usually."

Sherlock sighed and looked out the window. "Pity," he muttered.

John shook his head. "We never discussed what is in it for me, you know."

Sherlock perked up instantly. "A surprise," he said, grinning.

"So you've actually thought about it," John said, a little surprised already. "Okay. I'm not curious."

"Well. Though I know that the concept of me losing this thing is absolutely ludicrous, I thought it only decent to have actually planned for the eventuality anyway."

John snorted. "I'm honoured. But I'm really going to win this."

Sherlock didn't comment, just turned to look out the window again. Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "Stop the bus," he yelled, rushing towards the stairs while trying to watch something out the window.

"What…?" John went after him, only just catching himself as the bus stopped brusquely.

Sherlock didn't answer but leapt down the narrow stairs and hurried to the door, banging on it to get the driver to open it. As soon as he was out he rushed back down the street towards a tall old brick house. "Stop!" he yelled. "Don't move."

The woman who had been about to unlock the front door gasped and dropped her keys.

"What's going on?" John asked, leaving the bus.

"Your house," Sherlock gasped, stopping in front of the woman. "It's… been… compromised…"

"It's been what?" the woman asked, clearly wondering whether she should punch him or run away.

"The alarm…" Sherlock gasped, pointing at a small grey metal box located next to an upstairs window. "It's been tampered with. Recently. Someone has entered your house. And is still in there."

John stared. "You saw that from the bus?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, stepping back out into the road to get a better look at the little box. He pointed up at it again. "Can't you see it? The side is crooked and the light is off. Someone chucked something at it. Someone who knew exactly how to hit it and where." Then he turned slightly and pointed down. "The cellar window has been forced open. Someone has gone in. But they haven't come out."

"How do you know?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled and moved his hand slowly until he was pointing at the window closest to the door. The moment John turned to look, the curtains moved as if someone had been holding them up to peer out a moment before.

"Because I just saw him," Sherlock said as he straightened his collar and returned to the sidewalk while getting out his phone.

…

"One more time, please," Lestrade said with a sigh. "And please… remember the rest of us are mere mortals."

Sherlock turned and began pacing. "How complicated can it be?" he asked. "She," he gestured vaguely to the crying woman, now with a blanket wrapped about her as she was being questioned by Sergeant Donovan who kept scowling at Sherlock whenever the woman wasn't looking at her, "told her lover that things were over between them, two weeks ago. But the man, unable to take no for an answer, has been stalking her and today he decided to confront her. So, while she was at the shops, he broke into her house and was waiting for her to come home, so he could convince her to take him back. Failing that, he would have killed her and then himself." He looked back and forth between John and the D.I. "Come on," he huffed. "It's perfectly simple…"

"Yeah, to you," John said, rolling his eyes.

"How could you possibly know that?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sighed and pointed up to the alarm. "He knew how to disable the alarm, so he had been preparing for this. Planning it for a while. He has a gun hidden under his jacket or…" he looked over at the cursing, handcuffed man being led from the house, "he did when I first spotted him waiting by the window. He must have disposed of it, so you should have the house searched immediately. Just the ground floor though. He'll not have had time to hide it upstairs." He looked over at the woman. "She was frightened but not really surprised when she realised someone was inside her house, so she already knew that someone might be looking to confront and possibly harm her." He pointed towards the garage. "Her husband is currently working up north. So far that he only returns on weekends. So she took a lover. But the arrangement became… inconvenient, as the man proved to be unstable and possessive, so she broke it off, hoping that it would be the end of it." He smiled as he had come full circle and looked back towards the woman. "Obviously a grave miscalculation on her part."

"And you got that whole background story from the short time we were standing outside the house with her?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Of course."

"Wow," John said.

Sherlock smiled at him.

After a full minute, Lestrade cleared his throat. "Yes, well thanks," he muttered, already retreating. "I'm sure we can take it from here. Thanks and… you know…" He turned away and hurried over to Donovan who was now helping the woman into a police car.

"Let's go," John smiled.

Sherlock took his hand. "I think I spotted a park not far back," he said. "Lots of nice big oaks."

John snorted. "Let's hope Greg doesn't need us after all."


	6. Chapter 6

**Day 6 - December 11th**

John smiled as he walked through the busy streets of London. It was still cold, but also sunny, and altogether he couldn't have chosen a better day for this. Very early that morning, he had slipped out of the bed and left a note for Sherlock.

'_Morning, love. I'm out for Christmas shopping. Try to behave and don't come after me. Sorry for sneaking away from you, but we both know there is no other way I would be able to convince you to stay behind. See you tonight. _

_Your John.'_

Shortly after he had arrived in the shopping streets, John had received a rather disgruntled text, but so far it seemed like Sherlock would not follow him. Maybe the detective wanted to be surprised for Christmas just as much as the next person, even if he'd never admit it.

Yet buying Sherlock's gift was not the only reason for John to go off on his own. Finding appropriate presents for everyone was hard enough as it was, without Sherlock's sighs, huffs and snide comments at John's choices.

So far, he hadn't bought anything yet, and it was almost noon. He did know what he wanted to get Mrs Hudson: a set of nice tablecloths to go with her choice of wallpapers, but so far he hadn't seen anything that wasn't too old-fashioned or just fucking ugly. Even then, he felt that Sherlock and he should give their landlady something extra, to make up for blowing up her house.

Harry was a more difficult case. John always preferred to give people something practical, that they would use rather than store away in an attic, but also something they'd like and that would perhaps make them think of him when they saw it. Still, he and Harry didn't get along well enough for him to know what her hobbies were. Should he get her something for the kitchen? But she hated cooking. Something to decorate the house? Not after her continuous laughing at his absolute blind eye for interior design. Maybe it would be one of those ridiculous welcome signs after all. Or he could always pick up their old tradition of getting each other Christmas jumpers.

For Sherlock's mother and Mycroft, John wasn't even going to try. He would return with Sherlock to make sure neither of them would get them anything too stupid or impolite. There were so many "rules" in the Holmes family that it was almost certain he would do something wrong without Sherlock's advice. And he'd notice when Sherlock was deliberately making it worse. He hoped.

The real problem was Sherlock. John really didn't feel like buying him some standard Christmas gift that the detective would only roll his eyes at. Of course he could add something silly, but most of all John wanted to give him something meaningful on their first Christmas as a couple. Something that could really make Sherlock happy.

He went over the options in his head. Everything mundane was out of the question. A game? He didn't want another Cluedo incident. Books always were an option, but then it would have to be something specific that was of interest to Sherlock at the moment, or he'd never even look at it. Besides, maybe that wasn't special enough. Sherlock could always buy himself what he needed for his work. And John had to keep some options open anyway. Trust Sherlock to have a birthday so annoyingly close to Christmas.

John snorted as he walked past the window of a jeweller's. Sherlock wasn't the kind of man that had an interest for jewellery, unless it had been stolen in a very clever way. John couldn't imagine the detective would ever wear something more obvious than a wedding ring, and well. They hadn't even talked about that yet.

A few windows after that, they were displaying some very ugly jumpers indeed, so John entered the shop to see if anything funny enough would fit Harry.

…

Sherlock was pacing the house. The entire house. How dared John take off like that without him? How could he? He knew exactly how much Sherlock hated it here and would have jumped at any excuse to get out. Even something as mind-numbing as Christmas shopping. And he could have helped him. He knew exactly what would be the most appropriate and appreciated gift to all their acquaintances. He might even have told John rather than steer him wrong, just for the entertainment of it. But no… John had decided to do this on his own. Probably out of spite for something. Maybe Sherlock's moodiness the other day. Or beating him in chess too easily.

Sherlock groaned as he skipped down the steps for the fifth time that morning. This was insufferable. And of course Mycroft had chosen today of all days to work from home, so he stood a very real risk of running into him. The only sure way to avoid it was to stay in his room and that felt too much like confinement. So he roamed. From one end of the house to another. From ground floor to attic. He couldn't even explore, already knowing everything there was to know about the house. The only place there might have been something interesting was Mycroft's office, but that was, of course, where his brother was most likely to be.

Shortly before noon, the doorbell rang. Sherlock jumped off the dining table where he had been sitting, juggling a couple of porcelain eggs. He hid the eggs inside a Greek urn and then rushed to the stairs where he could observe the butler answering the door without being seen. It was merely a delivery and he was about the turn and leave when he heard the name of the recipient: Holmes, Sherlock. Not Mycroft. Sherlock!

He bounded down the stairs and literally tore the large parcel, which was wrapped in brown paper, out of the hands of the butler. He had no idea what it could be, but hurried up to his room and locked the door to avoid his brother walking in on him. Mycroft no doubt had ways of opening the door anyway, but it should buy him some time in the event that his brother _did_ show up.

He ripped the paper off and then sat for a whole minute staring in pure disgust at the colourful box next to the bottle of expensive champagne, before he noticed the folded piece of paper that came with it.

'_Dear Mr Holmes_' (Sherlock snorted.)

'_I never got to thank you properly for saving my life yesterday. In a way you have given me the greatest gift I could ever wish for: my life. And another Christmas with my beloved family. Therefore I wanted to give you this small token of my gratitude. It is not much, but I hope you will accept it in the spirit in which it is given. I would also beg of you and your friend to let me treat you to dinner at my house, Friday night, so that I can thank you properly, in person._

_Carol Hodges'_

Sherlock was about to toss the paper away when he realised that here was an excuse to get out of the house. And on a Friday no less, where Mycroft would certainly want to keep them longer at dinner for 'polite conversation'.

He keyed in the number from the back of the paper and sent a reply. Then he picked up the box and examined it from all sides. What ever was he going to do with this? Then it struck him. He chuckled as he got to his feet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Day 7 – December 12th**

_Dashing through the snow…_

Mycroft groaned and pulled the pillow over his ears. Not again...

Although he had planned to work from home on the previous day, he had been called in in the late afternoon. When the crisis was averted and he could finally return home, it was so late that it was early again. At this moment he had little more than two hours of sleep left. And that would still have been fine if it hadn't been for that awful song that started playing every so often. The first time, he had been half asleep and ignored it. After growing up with Sherlock, more than a simple Christmas carol was needed to make him wonder what was going on. He had almost dozed off again when it started again. And a few minutes later again. Where the hell did it even come from?

The next time, he gave up hope that eventually it would stop or that he could sleep through it. Breaking his own ground rule of not coming out of bed for anything once he was finally in it (with an exception made for his alarm in the morning), he walked over to the wardrobe where the sound seemed to come from. But there was nothing there. As he stood there looking, he could hear the faint jingling of small bells accompanying the song.

_Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh..._

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft shouted, but no reaction came – possibly because he had made the wise decision of putting Sherlock and John in the room furthest from his own. Soon he decided to give up looking for the source. He rolled his eyes when the only dressing gown he could find, was his pink, fluffy one. Sherlock had definitely been in his room.

As he stopped by Sherlock and John's door, he could hear fast breathing and soft moans inside. Again he rolled his eyes. It was almost four in the morning, for god's sake. He banged on the door with all his force.

"Sherlock! Get off your childish pranks! Some people have work in the morning!"

It went quiet inside the room.

"You come and switch that music off right now!"

…

Sherlock tried to smother a giggle as he looked towards the door where his brother could still be heard complaining. Then he turned to look over his shoulder at John, and his confused expression coupled with his very ruffled hair tipped Sherlock over the brink into loud laughter, which he tried to smother by shoving a corner of a pillow into his mouth.

John, who was still sitting on his knees between Sherlock's legs, shook his head. "What did you do _now_?"

"I…" Sherlock tried to stifle another giggle."I just wanted to spread the Christmas cheer."

John raised his eyebrows.

"If you don't fix it right now, I'm coming in!" Mycroft shouted.

"As long as he's not coming out," Sherlock whispered and then snorted.

John rolled his eyes but giggled a little. "Maybe he shouldn't barge in right now, though. And he'd better be grateful you don't go out like this right away."

Sherlock nodded, then called out: "We'll be done in ten minutes, I think. Maybe fifteen. You're just going to have to wait."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not waiting," Mycroft yelled back. "You can spend the whole day in bed, but I can't, so I'm sure John can pause his interests in proving that his oral fixation stretches to unhygienic regions for a moment."

John went bright red and looked mortified. "_How_ does he…?" He scrambled off the bed and threw Sherlock his dressing gown. "Make him go away."

Sherlock groaned as he stood up, walked across the bed while throwing on the robe, jumped down in front of the door and opened it, wearing his very best scowl. "You have nine bedrooms in this house. Why could you not just go sleep in any of the others? You knew John had been out most of the day, you have already seen that two champagne glasses were missing. You _knew_ you'd be interrupting. Mummy did _not_ raise you to be so rude."

"Mummy _did_ raise you to always close your robe before opening the door. I guess she failed with the both of us," Mycroft replied.

"You did not answer my question," Sherlock huffed as he tied the robe closed while pushing past Mycroft, and stalked towards his brother's room. "Surely you can have the cameras switched off in any room you want. Or do you not trust your own staff?"

"Cameras?" it sounded from the bedroom, where John had now gone from scarlet to very, very pale.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "It's not about the cameras, _I_ have nothing to be ashamed of. But I prefer to sleep in my own bed. Remove that damned noise."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Once inside Mycroft's room, he pulled a chair over to the wardrobe and stood on it so he could reach over the top of the old, finely carved piece of furniture. He loosened a board, reached inside and drew out a rather horrid plastic Santa figure, just as it started another round of _Jingle Bells_, shaking the small bells it was holding in both hands while wiggling its hips enthusiastically. He flicked the small switch in its back and tossed it down to Mycroft. "Happy?" he asked as he jumped off the chair and headed for the door.

"Thank you," Mycroft said in a clipped voice, closing the door right behind Sherlock.

Almost skipping with delight, Sherlock hurried back to their room. He abandoned his robe just inside the door and jumped eagerly up on the bed. "Where were we?" he asked John, happily.

"Sherlock, is he really _recording_ this?" John was staring up at him, still in shock.

Sherlock laughed. "Of course not. I've disabled the feeds in this room. First thing I did when we got here while you were in the loo. No cameras in there, by the way." He reached over for his half empty glass and sipped the champagne. "We really must thank Ms Hodges for a very wonderful night."

"Yeah…" John looked a little reassured, but was still uncomfortably glancing up at the corners of the room.

Sherlock wiggled, almost as enthusiastically as the plastic Santa. "Come on… I believe you were far from done down there."

...

Late in the afternoon, Sherlock came to John as he was blogging from a borrowed laptop in the downstairs library. "Lestrade's coming over," he said. "He has some questions about the case." He flopped down in one of the armchairs by the window. "I invited him to stay for dinner."

John gave him an approving look. "So you've actually learned some manners? I'm proud of you. Is it about Ms Hodges, or the case that had you sending so many texts a few days ago?"

"Hodges. She's being less than cooperative. So they need my help. As usual."

"Interesting. So that other case is solved?" John asked.

Sherlock frowned. "What other case?"

"The one you were texting about."

He laughed. "That wasn't _a_ case. That was several possible cases. All stupid, it turned out."

"Well, they were distracting enough at the time," John chided, but he smiled.

"Yes, well, I really really really wanted to find something that would take us away from here, didn't I?"

The doorbell rang.

"Perfect," Sherlock said, jumping up from the chair. "Mycroft will be home in less than thirty minutes."

"Why is that suddenly perfect?" John asked, staying where he was as it was clear that Sherlock would go open the door.

Sherlock paused and then went over to John. He leaned down and kissed his forehead. "You really are adorable sometimes, you know that?" he said, before turning and heading for the front door.

John rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I get the feeling you think 'adorable' and 'stupid' mean the same thing," he muttered.

Lestrade looked extremely uncomfortable as he followed Sherlock into the library. "I don't understand why you couldn't have come down to the Yard," he said, looking around.

Sherlock sat down again. "Oh no," he said. "We are visiting my brother. It would be terribly impolite to leave just before dinner."

"But…" Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "I called you this morning. You were the one who insisted we should wait until now."

Sherlock didn't answer but just did a vague sort of get-on-with-it wave with one hand. "So," he said. "What exactly is the problem?"

"Wait," John said, "why do you suddenly want to have dinner here? You've been trying everything to get out of here!"

Sherlock glared at him before turning back to Lestrade, looking politely expectant.

"Uhm… I… Eh…" Lestrade cleared his throat. "Ms Hodges will not tell us anything. She claims she has never seen the man before. That she does not know why he would want to harm her. That it was probably just an ordinary case of burglary." He shook his head, looking a little helpless.

"And the gun is missing," Sherlock said.

"Yes… How did you know?"

"Well, if you had the weapon, you did not need her statement to get a conviction for anything more than breaking and entering. So… You either need her to start talking or you have to find the weapon."

Lestrade nodded.

"She's hidden it," Sherlock said. "Don't worry. I'll get it tomorrow."

"Why would _she_ hide it?" John asked, confused.

"A burglary is random. A vindictive crime of passion is not. It has a motive. One that she does not want her husband to know about." Sherlock stood up with his usual 'case closed' attitude. "I think I hear Mycroft's car," he announced.

Lestrade flinched.

John frowned. "Everything alright?" he asked Lestrade.

"Of course it is," Sherlock said. "This is going to be fun." He rubbed his hands together and hurried out to greet his brother.

As Mycroft entered, he was still frowning at Sherlock's enthusiastic greeting, until he saw Lestrade. "Ah, Greg. Good evening," he said politely.

Lestrade nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Mycroft," he muttered.

"I presume Sherlock invited you here?" Mycroft inquired.

Lestrade nodded, just as Sherlock stepped in between them. "Yes," he said, happily. "The D.I. will be joining us for dinner. Won't that be cosy?"

"Of course," Mycroft nodded. "His company is always a pleasure."

Lestrade shuffled his feet, looking around the room. He caught John's eyes, with an almost pleading look.

John looked puzzled and shrugged.

…

"It was excellent, Freddie. Thank you," Mycroft said as the butler came to remove their plates. "Why don't you bring us some of that fine brandy now?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Oh, come on, Mycroft. Getting him drunk really isn't necessary. And it's so… crude…"

Lestrade shook his head too. "I… I really should get going. Dinner was delicious."

Sherlock reached out and put a hand on his wrist. "Oh no… Greg… Mycroft insists."

John's eyes flashed from one to the other as he was still trying to figure out what was going on. Apparently Sherlock had even learned Lestrade's name. "Surely Greg doesn't need to have a drink if he doesn't feel like it," he said.

"Oh, don't be silly. I know for a fact that this will be to his liking," Mycroft said smugly, taking over the bottle from Freddie.

"I'm sure you do," Sherlock said as he pushed his chair back far enough to put his feet up on the table.

Mycroft looked at them with disapproval. "Maybe we should move to more comfortable chairs in the living room," he said, getting up.

"Of course," Sherlock said and jumped to his feet. He took John's hand and hauled him along, practically pushing him down in one chair, taking the other for himself, leaving just the sofa for the other two.

"Are you sure we should, uhm, be here?" John whispered while Mycroft was following them with the bottle, and Lestrade came after him with a look as if he was walking to his own hanging.

"Of course," Sherlock said, smiling and not exactly keeping his voice down. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. It isn't often I get to see my brother…"

John quickly cleared his throat. "I'm not sure I _want_ to see it. Can't we go upstairs?"

Mycroft was indeed sitting down a little too close to Lestrade and the latter didn't look happy with that at all.

Sherlock pouted. "No," he said, making puppy eyes at John. "I spent all day planning this."

Lestrade gasped and made a move as if to stand up.

"Oh, sit down, Greg," Mycroft said. "It's not because Sherlock wants us to, that we can't get comfortable."

Sherlock focused back on them, leaning forward slightly, as if observing a fascinating and exotic ritual, never seen by outsiders before.

John held up his hand as Mycroft wanted to pour him a glass of brandy too. "I really think we should go," he said urgently, trying to ignore Greg's panicked look. "Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him.

"_Sherlock_."

"Go on, then," Mycroft said smoothly, directing himself to Sherlock. "I am sure John will make it worth missing this."

Sherlock stood up with a huff. "You really are much too old to be listening at keyholes."

Mycroft gave him a narrow smile. "Oh, that wouldn't tell me half as much as the footage does."

John went bright red again and hauled Sherlock off.

Sherlock struggled a bit until they were out of the room. Then he giggled. "Good thing I've hacked the downstairs cameras. It'll all be saved to my laptop for viewing at a more convenient hour."


	8. Chapter 8

**Day 8 - December 13th**

As John went down for breakfast early, he was surprised to find Greg at the table. "Er. Good morning?"

Greg just sighed and put down his cup of coffee. "You tell Sherlock _he_ can go to explain to my wife why I wasn't home last night."

"Ah. Uhm... You sure?"

"No." Greg got up and left the kitchen, slightly shaking his head.

…

Sherlock was in a particularly good mood when he got out of the car, lent to them by a slightly miffed Mycroft. There had been an argument in the house earlier that day, and Lestrade had left in quite a hurry. Luckily, Mycroft had not heard Sherlock's remark about Christmas starting early this year.

John had been scowling at Sherlock for most of the day. Something about it being more than a bit not good to practically ruin their friend's already unstable marriage just for Sherlock's amusement.

Still, Sherlock was actually humming as he rang the doorbell.

"Try to be nice," John mumbled, straightening his tie.

"Of course," Sherlock said, barely a second before the door was opened.

"Carol!" he exclaimed, and kissed the cheek of the baffled and blushing woman. "Thank you so much for your generous gift and invitation."

"Yes, you really didn't have to, but it's very kind," John said, stretching out his hand and glancing up at Sherlock for a moment.

As she led them inside, she offered them a drink. Sherlock declined, but kept smiling and conversing politely as he scanned the rooms they passed through.

"Any ideas yet?" John mumbled as they were sat at the table and Carol had gone to the kitchen to fetch the turkey.

"She'll have hidden it upstairs," Sherlock said. "The search will have been less thorough up there, since the intruder never made it there."

John nodded. "So we need an excuse to go there."

He smiled at Carol as she served them the steaming plates. "Smells delicious."

Sherlock nodded. "You are an excellent cook," he said, making Carol giggle and blush.

John shook his head, almost imperceptibly for anyone who wasn't Sherlock.

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at John, then turned back to Carol. While they ate, they chatted idly about this and that, as Sherlock steered the conversation towards her husband's new job and how she was handling the time alone. Carol told them at length about shopping trips with friends, shows, museums and the volunteer work she had considered doing but never gotten around to. Sherlock never once let his exasperated boredom show.

John was surprised at Sherlock's patience. He was even _eating_ like a normal person and his attention still seemed completely attached to the conversation. Still, John thought he could think of more efficient ways to find the gun than an endless conversation about this woman's habits.

He cleared his throat and directed himself to Carol. "Can you please show me the bathroom?" he asked with his most innocent smile.

Carol seemed startled for a moment, as if she had all but forgotten John was there. "Oh, yes, of course," she said, pointing at one of the doors. "Door at the end."

She turned back to smile at Sherlock who had just been telling her what a worthy cause he thought homeless parrots was.

Rather than going to the loo, John quietly climbed the stairs. The first door he entered led to a small linen room. Theoretically, it looked like a good hiding place, but then none of the stacks of neatly folded sheets, underwear and socks looked disturbed or out of place. Avoiding to touch anything, he quickly went on to check the next room. This seemed to be Carol's bedroom. He had only just kneeled to look under the large bed, when he heard something right outside the room. Shuffling over to the other side of the bed so at least he wouldn't be seen immediately when someone opened the door, he held his breath.

"I don't know," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "John does have a terrible sense of direction. He's probably gotten lost in a closet. I'm sure I'll find him before you have finished making the coffee."

He grinned at John and winked as he closed the door behind him.

John quickly got up. "What are you doing? You were supposed to distract her!"

Sherlock approached him slowly. "I did," he said. "I told her I would like some coffee after the lovely meal. I had to find some way to get her hand off my knee before she got too eager."

John snorted. "Maybe you should be a little _less_ nice to her."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. What harm can it do?"

John gave him a meaningful look.

"What?" Sherlock said. "Do you think I'd actually let her get away with feeling me up?"

"Probably not, she just... shouldn't be so interested. She's married, for god's sake." He frowned.

"That didn't stop her before, did it?" Sherlock asked, wrapping his arms around John and pulling him closer.

"I know. Shouldn't we go back?" John asked, though he put his hands on Sherlock's hips anyway.

"The water hasn't boiled yet," he said. "And she's still grinding the beans. We have four or five minutes before she even thinks to go looking for us."

John licked his lips, then decided not to lose time and kissed him.

Sherlock quickly opened John's trousers with habitual ease. He reached inside, felt that John was already completely hard and pulled back with a grin. "How do you want me?" he asked, sounding rather coy.

John swallowed. "Shouldn't you be looking for the gun?" he asked, but his gaze was locked on Sherlock's and he leaned into his touch.

"The gun can wait. This can't," Sherlock said and gave John's cock a soft squeeze.

John moaned and rocked his hips. "God, Sherlock…"

Sherlock chuckled and then got down on his knees, pulling John's cock free of his pants. He looked up at John and whispered: "Three minutes," before taking him in his mouth and sucking hard.

John whimpered, struggling to keep his voice down. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder to pull him along as he took one step back and sat down on the bed.

Sherlock followed willingly, using the changed angle to take John even further into his mouth, letting the tip of his cock slide just inside his throat before pulling back and sucking again.

John tangled a hand in his hair, closing his eyes in pleasure. "Mine…"

Sherlock hummed in response and began bobbing his head fast.

Making small sounds, John leaned back, one of his hands clenching around the sheet behind him. Eventually he let out a deep sigh and came.

"187 seconds," Sherlock said as he sat back and smiled up at him. "John… Really…"

John blinked. "Won't have time for you then, I suppose."

Sherlock cocked his head and listened. "No, she's moving towards the stairs, wondering what's keeping us." He stood up and went over to open the door. "Found him," he called. "He _was_ lost. But he found the upstairs bathroom. I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not," came the answer from downstairs. "The coffee is ready now."

"Okay," Sherlock called. "We'll be right down." He turned to check if John was decent.

John got up, zipped up his trousers and gave him a nod.

Sherlock waited by the door and when John passed him pulled him in for a quick kiss before following him downstairs.

As they entered the living room, where Carol had set up for coffee in front of the fireplace, she turned to smile at them, then frowned slightly at Sherlock's now rather messy curls. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Sherlock just smiled and smoothed his hair, though it did not help much. "Yes, of course. You have a very lovely house."

"Thank you," Carol said, gesturing for them to sit before settling on one end of the small sofa.

Before John could act, Sherlock had sat down next to her and gestured for John to take the chair.

John complied, but didn't look as huffy as he would have before their little encounter.

Over coffee, the conversation turned to other subjects. It turned out that Carol had once bred maine coon cats and had actually won 'Best of show' three years in a row. Sherlock feigned eager interest and asked to see pictures of these prize-winning felines. Carol turned a bit sad as she told them that she had packed the photo albums away after she had had to get rid of her beloved pets because her husband had developed an allergy.

"Oh, I'd really like to see them too, though," John jumped in. "I love cats."

Carol could not help but smile at their eagerness. "Okay," she said. "But it will take a minute. I think they're in the boxes from when Robert packed up his home office. I think they're in the basement." She stood up, then hesitated. "Would you mind waiting? I would kind of like to have a look at them myself."

"Of course not," Sherlock said, standing too. "We can clear this out," he gestured at the empty cups and coffee pot.

Carol giggled. "Thank you, but you really don't have to. I'll only be a moment." She rushed towards the kitchen and a moment later they could hear her hurrying down the stairs to the basement.

Sherlock held his hand out to John. "Quick," he said. "There are more rooms upstairs."

John nodded and followed him.

Once upstairs, Sherlock headed straight for the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

John immediately bent down and opened the cabinet doors under the sink, thinking it the only place where a gun could be hidden in that room.

Sherlock stepped up right behind him and reached down to open John's trousers again.

Startled, John turned around. "Aren't we supposed to search?"

"Plenty of time for that," Sherlock said, pushing down John's trousers and pants. Then he laughed. "Brace yourself," he said as he unzipped his own trousers. "We've got six minutes this time."

"But…" John said, but then he reached for Sherlock's cock and started stroking him. "I can't believe we're doing this."

"Don't worry," Sherlock said. "In a few seconds you'll believe it."

John snorted and kissed him.

Sherlock returned the kiss, then took John by the shoulders, turned him around and pushed him forward till he was leaning over the sink.

This time they finished with almost 30 minutes to spare and Sherlock took some time to tame his hair before they headed back downstairs. They were sitting quietly by the fire again by the time Carol arrived with the albums.

After almost an hour of looking at practically identical photos of large fluffy cats, Sherlock's pleasant attitude was beginning to falter.

John could see that it was time to leave before Sherlock ruined everything, but then of course they still hadn't found the gun with all their distractions. They needed to divert Carol again, but it was getting increasingly difficult to send her away, and her eyes were glued to Sherlock's body again, so he didn't feel like leaving him alone with her either.

"Could I perhaps have some more coffee?" he asked.

Carol frowned for just a moment, then she smiled. "Of course," she said, closing the fourth album and standing up. "I'm not boring you, am I?"

Sherlock was about to speak, but John quickly said, "No, not at all!" and returned her smile.

"Come on," he hissed at Sherlock as she turned to the kitchen once again.

Sherlock nodded and less than a minute later they were upstairs, heading into the guestroom. They were barely through the door before Sherlock pushed John down on the bed, with a wicked grin.

"Sherlock!" John whispered. "This is probably our last chance to find that bloody gun."

"Probably," Sherlock agreed, already working on getting John's trousers off yet again.

"I know you're frustrated, but we really can't do this now," John insisted.

"Okay," Sherlock said, pulling his own trousers off.

"Then get off me."

Sherlock moved, but instead of getting off John, he turned around and knelt over him to lean down and take his cock in his mouth.

John stared at his arse right in front of him and lost the ability to form coherent words. He gave up, put his hands on Sherlock's thighs and kissed his spine right above the crack of his arse. "Alright... Get on your side," he managed to say.

Sherlock succeeded in laying down without ever taking his mouth of John's cock. He spread his legs in invitation.

John suppressed a moan and took Sherlock's cock in his mouth, licking at the head gently at first.

Sherlock was so caught up in the dual sensations that he did not hear the steps approaching, nor the door opening. Not until their hostess gasped, did he realise that they had exceeded the time limit.

"What the hell?" Carol exclaimed, in a tone unlike anything they had heard that night.

John winced and quickly let go of Sherlock.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, pulling up his trousers. "Excuse us," he said. "We… We were just…"

"Leaving…" John added, also jumping into his trousers.

Before he had time to close them properly, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and hauled him out the door, pushing past the stunned woman, who seemed completely lost for a suitable reaction.

They ran out of the house and jumped into the car, where John burst out in giggles as Sherlock started the car. "Oh, god… And here I thought we had been through our craziest act long ago."

Sherlock chuckled. "I guess we've still got some craziness left."

"Now how will we find the gun?" John asked.

Sherlock focused on the road for a moment, smiling smugly before he said, "Oh, I found and photographed that before I even entered the first bedroom. Sent the pictures to Lestrade while we were looking at cats. He'll be here tomorrow, I expect."

John stared at him. "Then what on earth were we still doing there?"

Sherlock did not answer, but remained rather smug the rest of the drive home to Mycroft's.


	9. Chapter 9

**Day 9 - December 14th**

Lestrade called the next morning to thank Sherlock for finding the gun. Not only was the ex-lover now being charged with intent, but Ms Hodges was facing a conviction for obstructing justice.

As Sherlock hung up, he frowned. "He did not seem very grateful," he said. "More resentful, actually. I would have thought he'd want the case solved, even if it did mean working on a Saturday."

"Yeah, but you did set him up with your brother," John pointed out.

"Oh..." Sherlock considered for a moment. "Do you think he's still sore about that? It's not like it's the first time."

John raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

Sherlock mimicked his expression. "You didn't know?" He chuckled and turned on the sofa so he could put his feet up, leaning on John. He studied the large tree for a moment. "Freddie's really made an effort this year. I wonder why."

The Christmas tree had indeed been decorated luxuriously, but John didn't feel like allowing Sherlock to change the subject. "So what are you saying? Greg and Mycroft have been together?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "I don't know if I would call it together, but they were shagging a lot when Lestrade's wife had left him. You did notice that, didn't you?"

John scrunched up his nose. "I'd have thought Greg had better taste. Really, with Mycroft? Poor guy." He shook his head.

"Yes. Mummy thought so too."

"Oh. I see. So she doesn't approve of me either."

Sherlock frowned. "Why would you say that?"

John shrugged. "I'm not exactly rich."

Sherlock laughed. "Neither am I. And why should she care about that?"

"I don't know," John said. "If she cared about it with Greg..."

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh no, she didn't. She just thought he was much too sweet for Mycroft. Sweet and a bit... simple..."

John snorted. "Everyone is a bit simple to your family."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, nodding. "But at least you're not sweet. According to Mummy."

…

Although the memories of the past two days had been able to keep Sherlock's mind busy for a while, he began to get restless again after lunch. At the first "bored!" John could still help him with a hug, but eventually he had to get more inventive to keep Sherlock distracted from thoughts about wrecking the house or pulling another prank on Mycroft. Even though they hadn't talked about it again, their bet was still on, and John doubted Sherlock had forgotten about it. As he suggested to borrow the kitchen from Freddie to make gingerbread men, a dangerous gleam had appeared in Sherlock's eyes, so John cancelled the idea and they went for another walk. Inspired by Sherlock's suggestions of how various features of Mycroft's garden could be utilised, they ended up in the bedroom, where John finally managed to wear Sherlock out. After a brief appearance at dinner, which was another silent and awkward affair, they spent a lazy, snuggly evening in bed watching old episodes of QI on the laptop. It turned out to be the one quiz that could keep Sherlock interested, albeit slightly annoyed, because he could not always guess the answers in advance.


	10. Chapter 10

**Day 10 - December 15th**

Note: This chapter has the boys watching the _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ pilot. If you don't know it, we suggest you go watch it, it's on Netflix! ;)

Other note: The reference to their adventures in Cardiff makes more sense if you've read our story _When Their Paths Crossed, _which is actually the sequel to _What Have We become_, but can be read independently (though we of course suggest that you read the entire trilogy that is concluded in _When Their Paths Crossed Again_). Enjoy.

On Sunday, a flash of inspiration had come to John that could perhaps keep Sherlock busy.

"You'll love it," he told Sherlock as he was trying to convince him. "At least I always loved _Star Trek_. And it won't be bad to know a little more about space travel either, if in the future we encounter more adventures like we did in Cardiff."

"John," Sherlock said with a heavy sigh. "You don't seriously believe we can learn anything factual from an American science fiction series, do you?"

"Shush," John said, dragging Sherlock to the sofa. "I really want to watch it with you."

"Then say that," Sherlock said, following reluctantly. "Don't try to sell it as something it is not."

John rolled his eyes and put the _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ pilot on on the telly.

Sherlock focused on the screen for a moment, then snorted at the opening credits. "Are they serious? I may not know much about the solar system, but even I know those proportions are wrong"

"Ssh. Just enjoy it. It doesn't have to be right to be fun," John said.

"The music is kind of repetitive, isn't it?"

"Kind of," John shrugged.

Sherlock managed to watch in silence almost 30 seconds into the actual episode before speaking up again.

"Why are the women in such short dresses? That hardly seems practical."

"I know. I guess it works as long as they don't have to fight," John answered.

"Then why aren't the men in shorts? Or bare chested? If it's so hot on the ship that the women have to be half naked? Except the boots of course… And what's with her hair? It's… insane…"

"Yeah, alright. I didn't choose their costumes and looks, did I?" John said with a pointed look at Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock glanced at him and then focused back on the screen. "What the hell?" he exclaimed. "A chainlink fence in space? Really?" Then he snorted as the antagonist appeared. "Oh my god. I take it back. Better the strippers than that!"

John snorted too. "Yeah, okay, the costumes aren't so great."

"What did they do? Pop over and borrow it from a low budget production of Hamlet?"

John giggled. "Maybe."

"And what's with the pale guy? What's wrong with his eyes?"

"Just listen and find out," John smiled. "He's cool."

Sherlock was clearly not convinced but focused back on the show. "It doesn't make sense he's making log comments about things that happen mid-scene," he commented. "Unless he's making them mentally as things are happening, and that would be rather stupid. Who'd want to keep a record of that?"

"Yeah, alright," John said, not really listening to him.

"Oh great… Now he's clad in bubble wrap…"

"Great to avoid bruises," John smiled.

"What happened to that guy's head?"

"He was born like that. He's a Klingon, obviously," John said smugly.

"A what? A cling-on? Sounds kind of… icky…"

John giggled. "Sounds like you when you're sleeping."

"Oh… Well, then it's kind of charming, I guess."

"You, charming? Hah," John grinned.

"Always," Sherlock said and pulled him over for a quick kiss.

John giggled again and looked back at the telly.

Sherlock did not really try to concentrate, but was more interested in kissing John's neck and ear lazily. Until a new monstrosity brought his attention back to the screen.

"If this is supposed to be a court of the future, why are they dressed as if they were from the Middle Ages?" he demanded. "I like the pale one, though. He's very observant. She's not. Everything she says seems… pointless." Just as John was about to respond, he continued, "Those projections of Earth future seem rather far fetched, but then again, they were written in the 80s. People were quite paranoid back then. So… dystopic."

"Sometimes I wish you had a mute button," John said, shaking his head slightly. "Oh, thanks, Freddie. That's very kind," he told the butler as he put down a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.

"That does not make sense. What is the purpose of a court if the sentence has already been decided in advance? It's so… inefficient…" Sherlock huffed and sipped his tea. "Can't we watch something that isn't complete nonsense?"

"Where would be the fun in that? What would you rant about? At least this has a legal system for you to comment on," John said.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but remained silent until all the biscuits were gone.

"Who's that one?" he asked after a while. "Another captain?"

"First officer," John corrected. "His name is Riker."

"He's a prat," Sherlock concluded. "What's wrong with him? Has he got his head so far up his own arse that he cannot see what's going on right in front of him? Of course there's something fishy about the fruit, but he doesn't care, as long as he gets his apple. They should have given him a banana. More fitting."

John laughed. "Oh, he's quite alright. Give him a little more time."

"Is he hitting on that boy? That's disgusting."

"What? He's not," John said.

"Oh, come on!" Sherlock gestured at the screen. "Did you see the look he gave him when he said, 'See you onboard'? I could get him arrested for that look alone."

"He always looks like that. Calm down."

"Ewh," Sherlock said and got up to go find more biscuits.

John gave the detective's back a fond look and decided to enjoy his Sherlock-free moment.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later, having found not only biscuits but also some of Mycroft's chocolates, which he was saving for Christmas Eve. He flopped down next to John with a happy grin. "Did I miss anything? Of course I didn't. Chocolate?"

"Yeah, thanks," John said, taking one, not bothering to tell Sherlock what had happened as he had probably already deduced it.

"Why do it manually?" Sherlock asked after a while. "Surely a spaceship like that will be able to connect better on its own than with an imbecile guiding it."

"The Captain is testing his abilities," John shrugged.

"And risking the lives of everyone on board. He knows nothing about that man's abilities. Surely someone that reckless would not be given command of a vessel with such a vast crew."

"I'm sure Captain Picard knows what he's doing. I know I'd follow him," John said, lazily shifting back to sit more comfortably.

"That's the least convincing aging makeup I've ever seen. I could do better than that. I _have_ done better than that. And the whole scene seemed pointless," Sherlock whined. "Do we have to watch this?"

"It's better than doing nothing and listening to how bored you are," John said.

"Oh? You prefer me being annoyed?" Sherlock stood up. "You watch it. I'll find something else to do."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, just stay. You don't have to watch it, but let's just cuddle," John said, taking his hand.

Sherlock considered, then flopped back down and reattached his lips to John's neck, switching between sucking and blowing softly on the skin.

"You're distracting me," John mumbled.

Sherlock did not answer, but doubled his efforts, placing one hand very high up on John's thigh.

"I suppose the _point_ is distracting me," John commented, his eyes still on the screen.

Sherlock managed a shrug without dislodging his lips. His hand moved further up and in, until it was cupping John's crotch. He gave it a soft squeeze.

John suppressed a moan. "Yeah, okay, and I suppose you've won." He pulled Sherlock up so he could kiss him and pushed into his hand.

Sherlock flicked the button of John's trousers open with his thumb and began pulling the zipper down. John continued to kiss him deeply, his hands wandering down to find their way up Sherlock's shirt.

Freddie, who was bringing another tray, decided there was no immediate need for tea. He turned around and hurried back to the kitchen.


	11. Chapter 11

**Day 11 - December 16th**

"What do you mean, Mycroft won't want a pot bellied pig for Christmas? It looks just like him. And he won't be so lonely when we leave." Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk, his hands stubbornly deep in his pockets, completely ignoring the annoyed shoppers who were constantly about to bump into him as they hurried to and fro with their arms full of colourful gifts and bags.

"We could order one over the phone and we wouldn't have to do this," he added, pouting slightly.

"Come on, Sherlock, don't be so childish. You can deduce well enough what they _do_ want," John sighed.

Sherlock mimicked his sigh. "Fine… A new umbrella stand for Mycroft and a book for Mummy. Something old. First edition preferably. So she'll think we made an effort."

"Why would Mycroft want a new umbrella stand? He already has so many," John said.

"He'll be needing a new one for the northern hall," Sherlock said, smiling. "Come Christmas."

"And why, exactly, will that be?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Experiment," Sherlock said and began walking briskly down the street.

John had to do a strange sort of skip to catch up with him again. "Can't you do your experiment somewhere else than in your brother's most beloved umbrella stand?"

Sherlock stopped abruptly and just looked down at John.

John sighed. "How about I give you whatever it is you want for Christmas anyway, and we let go of that stupid bet?"

Sherlock grinned. "Are you sure?"

"If you tell me what it is, I can judge if it's worth it."

"Nope," Sherlock said and began walking fast again. "That's not how it works."

John sighed. "But you do realise that if I win, _when_ I win, you won't have it if you don't tell me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If you were to win that would mean I had lost, so of course I wouldn't have it."

"But it's something you want," John said. "I could change my mind."

"I'll win," Sherlock said and then turned into an antiques shop.

John shrugged, deciding that with the whole umbrella stand collection Mycroft already had, one more would never hurt.

Three steps into the shop, the familiar scent of old furniture and leather-bound books was almost overwhelming. John frowned, trying to ignore the memories it brought along. Sherlock had already walked further in and was looking at a very ugly umbrella stand with a small smirk.

"Not that one, obviously," John said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock chuckled and moved on.

John went after him, trying not to pay too much attention to a set of old vases next to him and growing tenser with every step. It all reminded him too much of the old man in Blackpool. Of the knife in his hand and everything that had followed from there.

Suddenly Sherlock was behind John, slipping his arms gently around his waist. "I'm sorry," he whispered in his ear. "I didn't think." Then he called out to the old woman behind the counter. "We'll have the silver umbrella stand. The one with the lions. And the second edition Ibsen on the third shelf from the door. Can you bring them outside?"

He took John's hand and led him towards the door.

Once outside he pulled John into a proper hug. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"It's fine," John sighed. "I'm being ridiculous. It's just… Going in there brought everything back."

He rested his head against Sherlock's chest, as Sherlock stroked his hair gently. "It wasn't your fault," Sherlock whispered. "You couldn't have done anything to prevent it."

John took a deep breath. "I know. It was just… horrible. I mean… everything it led to." He tightened his grip around Sherlock's waist a little.

"I know," Sherlock said softly. Then he looked around. "Why don't you go get us a table in that café over there? I'll be right along with the presents," he said, giving John a small squeeze.

John nodded and tried a smile. "Don't be too long."

Sherlock gave him a quick kiss. "I won't," he promised, turned John around and gave him a small push in the direction of the café.

…

Sherlock got the idea over the second cup of hot chocolate. To his delighted surprise it wasn't too hard to talk John into it and they used Sherlock's phone to place the various orders and then got a cab so they could be home before the fun began.

The pen was delivered first and poor Freddie was at a complete loss as to what to do with the large flat box with a picture of a very fat but cute pig on the front. He had been about to call his boss to ask where to put it, when the next parcel arrived. 40 pounds of the finest pig feed available. Next were a set of ceramic bowls and then a collar and leash.

Sherlock and John had been watching it all from the top of the stairs, trying to stay out of sight and not giggle too loudly.

When Mycroft arrived, Freddie almost lost his distinction and walked a little too quickly towards him to take his coat. "Sir," he said. "Did you order... all that?" He pointed at the small stack of parcels.

Mycroft frowned and bent to look at them. "What on earth is that?" he muttered. "I didn't have any of that shipped here…" Then the picture of the pig caught his attention and he sighed. "Ah… I think I know who did."

"Sir?" Freddie said.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock giggled, and hid behind John.

"Let's go down," John whispered, suppressing his own giggles. "See the fun at close distance."

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak at the moment.

They came down the stairs, calmly so John had a minute to compose himself.

"Yes, Mycroft?" he asked.

"What," Mycroft asked, "is all this doing here, Sherlock?"

John looked past him and Freddie, and then acted all disappointed. "Oh, Freddie, we should have told you. It was supposed to be a surprise."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "A surprise?"

"Yeah, for Christmas," John said innocently. "You know… Part of your gift."

Sherlock only managed to refrain from laughing by keeping his teeth clenched together.

Mycroft glanced at him for a moment before focusing on John again. "_Part_ of it. I see. I can't imagine what the last part will be," he said, glaring at the box with the pig picture.

John smiled his most wide-eyed smile, hoping very badly he hadn't cracked a rib yet. "We thought you'd like it."

"Cancel the order," Mycroft told Freddie. "And you two, get out of my sight before I throw you out."

"Gladly," Sherlock said, taking John by the hand and rushing up the stairs.

Once in their room, John burst out in giggles, leaning against Sherlock. "Even if he _had_ thrown us out… That would have been so worth it. His face…" he hiccupped.

Sherlock could hardly breathe from laughing but nodded. "Per… Perfect… You were… brilliant…" he gasped.

"Thanks," John breathed, pressing a hand against his ribs.

Sherlock turned to John and pulled him in for a breathless, giggly kiss.

John beamed up at him. Sherlock stroked his cheek gently and then dropped to his knees in front of him. "It was very much appreciated," he purred as he began opening John's trousers. "_Very_ much indeed."

((If you are wondering what exactly happened to John in an antiques shop, you'll just have to read _What Have We Become. _We're not trying to lure you or anything. It's just really good.))


	12. Chapter 12

**Day 12 - December 17th**

"Do you think Mycroft is still trying to find the order for the pig to cancel?" John asked as he snuggled back against Sherlock, after he had drawn the curtains to let in the morning sun.

Sherlock chuckled. "It would have been perfect, but by now his... people, will have tracked our entire phone and internet history for the past month. I hope you haven't been doing anything unsavoury online." He winked.

John snorted. "As if I'd even have time for that with you around."

"True," Sherlock said, laughing as he nuzzled John's neck.

John kissed his hair. "Would he be able to deduce his real gift?" They had stored the presents for Mycroft and Mummy in their bedroom rather than under the Christmas tree, so there were no shapes to deduce anything from.

"Probably. If you let him get near it for too long."

"I meant without seeing it." John's hand wandered down Sherlock's back.

Sherlock considered for a moment. "In a couple of days he might," he said, thoughtfully. "Depending on how the experiment progresses."

John shook his head. "What are you going to do?"

"Just test the effect of some corrosives on silver. I've been wanting to do it forever, but we had nothing in the flat of sufficient size." Sherlock shrugged. "It's not like it's one of a kind or anything. It's hardly antique. We're doing him a favour exchanging it for the other one."

"He may be fond of it," John said.

"I'm sure he is," Sherlock said, smiling smugly. "It was a gift."

"From whom?"

"Me." Sherlock dived under the covers and began kissing his way down John's chest and stomach.

John hummed. "You give him something and then you destroy it. Hardly a Christmas thought."

"Why not? It'll be kind of nostalgic," Sherlock said looking up at John with a slight frown. Then he shrugged and began kissing and licking his stomach again.

John decided he didn't care about Mycroft's umbrella stands for now and sighed happily while tangling one of his hands in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock continued moving slowly down and then deviated off to the side and began nibbling on John's hipbone.

John let out an impatient moan, stroking Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock just chuckled and carried on.

"Come here, you," John growled, pushing Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock looked up at him. "What?" he asked, almost not smiling smugly.

"_Want_." John pulled him up to kiss him hungrily.

Sherlock let him take control, giggling into the kiss.

Without taking his lips of Sherlock's, John pushed him over on his back and straddled his hips.

Almost instinctively, Sherlock put his hands on John's hips, massaging his skin gently as he pushed up against him.

John let another impatient growl escape and reached over for the lube on the nightstand, then pushed it into Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock wasted no time preparing John and then, his hands back on his hips, lifted him up so he could position himself. "I love you," he whispered, and then pushed up and into him.

John sighed and his eyes rolled back in pleasure as he lowered himself over Sherlock. "You too."

Later as they lay in a happy, slightly sweaty tangle of limbs and lazy kisses, they agreed they'd better avoid Mycroft that day. And what better way to do it than stay in their room?


	13. Chapter 13

**Day 13 - December 18th**

A brother-free day seemed to have worked wonders for both of the Holmes men. At breakfast they were almost pleasant. Mycroft announced that he was going into the office and Sherlock nodded and said that he would spend the day catching up on some new developments in some obscure branch of psychoanalysis.

John decided to update his blog and try to find a good book in Mycroft's vast library.

But everything changed around noon, when Lestrade called and asked them to come down to the Yard. Sherlock's calm cheeriness vaporised as he bounced from his chair and bolted down the stairs. "Come on, John," he called over his shoulder. "We've got a case."

...

Lestrade seemed uncommonly grave when they entered his office. He also looked tired, and John wondered how much trouble the whole situation with Mycroft had gotten him in.

Sherlock sat down and watched Lestrade expectantly.

The DI cleared his throat. "It... It's not really a case. But... I thought you should know. Your flat is being watched. I'm not sure by whom, but both myself and Donovan have seen different people, all with hoods or scarves around their head."

John frowned. "Who would have an interest in watching it being rebuilt?"

But Lestrade didn't have the chance to answer, as Sherlock had jumped up immediately. "Thank you," he said and rushed out the door.

John gave their friend a quick, apologising look before running after Sherlock.

"Any idea what is going on?" he asked as he was being pulled along into a cab.

Sherlock nodded. "They're trying to get in touch with me. I should have thought of it... " Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "Let them know where I was..."

John frowned. "Who?"

"My network," Sherlock said. "They're always keeping an eye on a couple of things and people for me. Something must have happened."

"Oh," John said, finally understanding. "The homeless."

As the cab arrived in Baker Street, John was glad to see that number 221 was beginning to look like a house again, rather than a ruin.

As soon as Sherlock was out of the taxi, he looked around, sniffed and hurried down the street, turning abruptly round a corner.

When John caught up with him, Sherlock was already talking in urgent whispers to a young man dressed in filthy work clothes, who flinched and almost fled when he saw John.

John held up a hand and tried to look reassuring. "Don't worry. I'm with Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded and then turned to John. "Seems like it's my turn to do a favour," he said, frowning slightly. "Ally's gone missing."

"One of his friends?" John asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

"When and where did you last see her?" John asked the young man.

"Saturday," he said. "At this... food thing, arranged by some rich women. Down on the Strand."

John nodded. "Has she disappeared before?"

He shook his head. "Not without letting us know," he said. "It's not like she had anywhere to go. We think."

Sherlock nodded. "I will look for her."

"Should we leave the police out of this?" John asked.

The young man shrugged. "We don't really have a choice. We spoke to them Monday and they said there's nothing they can do. No one knows her last name. Or if Ally's even her real name. They say she has most likely moved on to another city. Or maybe even gone home to her family. And even though we know she hasn't, we can never prove it, because we do not know who or where her family is."

"We'll do everything we can," John promised.

Sherlock got the necessary information and then called for another cab. While he waited, he provided the young man with Mycroft's address and an Oyster Card that would get him around to spread the word of the detective's temporary location.

It only took Sherlock two minutes on his phone to find the precise address where the "food thing" had taken place. The names of the organisers were in the article too, so they decided to visit the one living closest to where the event had been.

Evelyn Hart was, apparently, a typical bored woman of the upper class, of the kind who would alleviate the guilt of her own extravagance by throwing events such as the 'Banquet of the Heart' where Ally had been seen last. She answered the door herself and showed them into a tasteful, but obviously very expensive sitting room and, despite having just been notified of their visit five minutes in advance, offered them tea and freshly baked biscuits, which were served by a smiling plump woman who seemed to be almost a decade older than her middle aged employer.

After thanking the woman, Maggie, Evelyn poured the tea herself. "I must say, Mr Holmes," she said as she handed Sherlock his cup. "I was very surprised when you called. Surprised and intrigued."

Sherlock frowned. "Oh, so you know who I am?"

"Oh yes, of course," she said. "I am ever so fond of your website."

Sherlock straightened up, almost seeming to grow an inch or two. "Oh, you do? So… you've read about my cases. You know what it is I do?" He sent John a meaningful, only slightly triumphant look.

"Oh yes, of course," she said, smiling. "That case… The one about that poor woman who had to kidnap her own children to save them from that monster of a father. It… It broke my heart. But I was so happy that you could help them."

Sherlock frowned. "I never wrote about Harris…" He turned to glare suspiciously at John.

John smiled. "I did, on my blog. Glad you read it," he said cheerily.

Sherlock huffed and put down his cup. "Well, then…" he said, rather coldly. "This might be another, just as serious case. You see… one of the young people attending your… banquet, has gone missing. In fact, she has not been seen since."

Evelyn gasped. "Oh, how horrible… But… surely you don't think that I… could have anything to do with…"

"Of course not," John said. "But we have to start somewhere, and as she has no family or home, it was the logical choice to come and find out if you had perhaps seen anything unusual at the event."

"Well… Now that you mention it," Evelyn said after a moment's thought. "There was some kind of disturbance. Some of the poor youngsters got into a fight. I do not know much about it, as I was helping out in the kitchen at the time. But… Maggie may have seen something. She was clearing the tables at the time. For the next group."

"Then we'll ask her, if you don't mind," John smiled.

"Of course." Evelyn got to her feet. "I'll fetch her immediately. Oh, I do hope nothing's happened to the poor girl."

Once she had left, Sherlock turned to look at John. "So…" he said. "Your blog… What did you call that case?"

John rolled his eyes. "I told you when I wrote it down. Do you ever listen?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "At least not when it concerns things like that."

"Then what use is telling you now? You'd only make fun of my title," John said, looking up with a smile as Maggie and Evelyn returned.

Sherlock barely waited for the women to be seated before launching his first question. "So… you saw a fight break out?" he snapped, seeming a little impatient.

Maggie looked startled. "I… Well, it happens rather often on these things, I don't know if it's anything to worry about… But there was this young girl involved, and Evelyn told me you are looking for…"

"Ally," Sherlock said. "Tall, short black hair. Large birthmark just under her right eye."

Maggie thought for a long moment. "I think… Yes, that _might_ have been her…"

"And a young man? Slightly shorter, dressed as if he might be working at a building site, but terribly filthy?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say _filthy_," Maggie said. "They do of course not get many chances to get themselves clean… But I think I've seen him. It's just that there were so many of them, so it's hard to be sure…"

Suddenly Sherlock jumped up, stormed around the small coffee table that had so far been separating them and leaned in over Maggie, making her squeak in surprise. "The young girl. Ally. What happened to her after the fight? Did she leave on her own?" he barked.

"She… she… yes," Maggie stammered.

"Sherlock," John mumbled.

"Bugger!" Sherlock exclaimed, spun around on his heel and was out the door.

"Is he… Did I say something wrong?" Maggie asked, looking a little unhappy.

"No, you were very helpful," John said with a comforting nod. "Sherlock can just get rather impatient on cases like this. After all it may be important we find her in time. Thank you both for your help."

Evelyn reached out and took Maggie's hand, giving it a small squeeze. "You did well, dear. He's always like that when he's working." She smiled at John and winked. "Isn't that right, Doctor Watson?"

John returned the smile. "Quite right. He gets quite insufferable when he's working, but usually he makes up for it later."

Evelyn giggled and nudged Maggie. "See? I told you those two were an item."

John blushed. "Well, er. We'll let you know if we need any more information," he said, before rushing after Sherlock.

Sherlock had already found a cab and was almost bouncing with impatience when he saw John. "Let's go," he said. "Phil was lying, that little shit. He knows I can't read him. But I didn't think he'd do it when it was about something like this. About Ally." He jumped in the cab, telling the driver to take them to Covent Garden.

"Do you think she's in danger?" John asked.

"I think she decided to leave," Sherlock said. "I have no idea what has happened to her. Maybe she _did _actually just skip town. I need to know more. I need to know what the argument was about."

They searched for several hours, but in the end, Sherlock had to conclude that Phil was avoiding him and John finally managed to convince him it was time to call it a day. The detective did not speak during the ride home and went straight to their room, ignoring Freddie who tried to tell them that dinner was almost ready.


	14. Chapter 14

**Day 14 - December 19th**

Sherlock was not in a good mood when he got up the next morning. He hardly spoke during breakfast, except to snap at Freddie and then make some remarks about Mycroft's employer that would probably have seen him executed a century ago.

"Isn't there anything else we can do?" John asked him when they were back in their room. "I mean, insulting everyone you cross paths with won't help either…"

Sherlock huffed. "Of course there is," he snapped. "But the people I need to talk to won't be in the places where I know to look for them before noon. Or later. They'll be holed up against the cold still, and they switch sites so often that I have not been able to keep track of them while we've been staying here. Another reason why we should have gone to a hotel closer to home."

"Okay, but we're here now," John said. "Won't we find them if we just go look in the logical places?"

"Yes. That should only take a couple of weeks."

John rolled his eyes. "Okay. So we just wait and do nothing but moaning?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I intend to get started on my experiment as soon as my brother leaves."

"Are you sure that's a good idea now? Won't you be distracted by the case?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Does it matter?" he asked as he went to his bag and began searching through the various bottles he had managed to salvage from their flat.

"Er, yes, it does," John said. "Last time you were distracted during an experiment, our home exploded."

"John," Sherlock said with a smile. "First of all, there is nothing combustible involved in this experiment, and secondly, as infuriating and interesting as this case is, it will never be as distracting as you wearing our smallest towel and nothing else."

John rolled his eyes again, but looked smug. "Wouldn't you prefer a better distraction, then?"

"No, that would not be very helpful in finding Ally, would it?" Sherlock said. Having found the proper bottle he went over to the door to listen for sounds of his brother leaving. "Ten minutes," he said with a sigh, as he returned to the bed and flopped down.

John sat down next to him. "How is the effect of corrosives on silver going to help her, then?" he asked, smiling a little.

Sherlock opened one eye to glare at him. "It's going to help me," he said. "At some point. And it's so simple it will not be a distraction. Merely something to keep my hands and eyes occupied while my mind works."

"Alright then."

…

"So where are we going first?" John asked when they were finally back in the centre that afternoon.

"Paddington," Sherlock said, looking for the stairs to Bakerloo.

"Right. Hunting for bears." John smiled.

Sherlock stopped and turned to stare at him. "What?" he said, frowning.

John looked up at him for a moment. "Never mind."

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, reaching out to feel John's forehead.

John snorted. "It was just a reference, silly. You probably deleted it. Let's go."

"John… Please don't make references," Sherlock snapped before he turned and continued towards the platform.

"There!" Sherlock pointed at a young girl who was playing a recorder further down the tunnel leading to the lift. "She's a friend of Ally's. She must have been at the banquet too," he said, hurrying towards the girl. "Do you have any cash?" he asked, glancing at John over his shoulder.

John reached into his pocket and followed him.

Sherlock held out his hand to take the money from John as he stopped in front of the girl. He gave her his best reassuring smile and she nodded to him, though she did not stop playing. Only when Sherlock had deposited nearly £20 in the hat in front of her did she lower her instrument.

"Heya Holmy," she said, with a crooked grin. "What can I do you for?"

Sherlock let out a tiny sigh before speaking. "Were you at the banquet, the other day?" he asked, speaking slightly slower than he usually would. "With Ally-cat, Philly and the others?"

The girl nodded. "Yeah. Good eating that was. And the place was nice and warm too." She pushed her glasses up with her ring finger and grinned at them.

John found her expression a little unsettling and tried not to frown.

Sherlock mirrored her grin and nodded. "I can imagine so. Did you happen to hear Ally and Phil having a bit of an argument?" he asked.

The girl's smile did not falter as she nodded eagerly. "Oh yes. Quite a row, for sure. I almost thought they'd start flinging the food at each other. And such good food."

"Do you know what they were fighting about?" Sherlock pressed, still smiling.

She closed her eyes for a moment, clearly trying to remember. "Emmy," she said. "Something about Emmy."

"Oh," Sherlock frowned. "Wasn't Emmy there?"

"Yes, of course. She was crying something dreadful she was. Poor girl." The memory of Emmy's distress finally drove the smile away. "She's been feeling so awful. Says it's all her fault."

"What is?" John asked.

"You know," the girl said, glaring at John. Then she lowered her voice until it was barely more than a whisper. "The thing with Ally." Then she looked away from them, raised her recorder to her lips and began playing a cheerful Christmas carol.

Sherlock sighed and took John's hand. "Come on," he said softly. "We have to find Emmy."

"Is she okay?" John asked, looking back at the girl.

Sherlock nodded. "Sissy's always okay. She was born okay and no matter what life throws at her, she'll smile and play her way through it all."

John smiled. "Good for her, I guess."

"Depends on how you view it, I suppose," Sherlock said as he led John up into the busy streets. "Her life is a mess, but she does not care."

After a couple of hours, and several substantial 'donations' later, Sherlock had confirmed that the argument had indeed been about Emmy and that she had left the city shortly after, supposedly returning to her mother's house in Swindon.

After a brief debate, Sherlock agreed to return home to check on his experiment and then go to Swindon the following day, which would give John time to get in touch with Emmy and her family to let them know the detective was coming. Having just been reunited, the family didn't really need this kind of intrusion.


	15. Chapter 15

**Day 15 - December 20th**

"Good morning, Mrs Williams," John smiled as Emmy's mother opened the door for them. "I called yesterday."

The woman nodded. "Mr Holmes?"

"John Watson," John corrected her friendly. "This is Sherlock Holm-" He turned around to where Sherlock wasn't standing anymore, as he had wandered off to study a window. "Sherlock."

Sherlock made a sort of wave at John, as he cocked his head, trying to look behind the curtains. Then he smiled, turned and walked over to the door, holding out his hand. "Maybe we could come in?" he asked.

"Of course," Mrs Williams said, shaking his hand before turning to show them the living room. "I'll call Emmy. She's in her room."

"No," Sherlock said. "She's just left through the back door. But don't worry, she's left her coat in the kitchen so she won't get far."

Mrs Williams stared at him for a moment, then ran out, calling her daughter's name.

John sighed. "Why didn't you stop her right away if you knew?"

"Because it's me she's running from," Sherlock answered. "It'll be easier for her mother to get her to come back."

Somehow, Mrs Williams did indeed manage to convince Emmy, and Sherlock and John didn't have to wait long before the girl entered, clearly very reluctant. She was fidgeting with the hem of her jumper, that looked clean and new, and she didn't sit down. Sherlock kept standing too.

"I'll fetch you all a cup of coffee," Mrs Williams said.

Sherlock studied Emmy calmly. "It's been a while," he said. "How have you been?"

Emmy shrugged. "That's not why you're here."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's not. But I'm kind of wondering why you're here."

She shrugged again. "It was time to go home."

"Ally did not agree?" he asked.

Emmy winced. "I don't want to talk about her."

Sherlock reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. "I understand that things got rather nasty. You both said some horrible things. But… Ally may be in trouble. I need you to tell me everything that happened, or I won't be able to help her."

Emmy looked at the floor and shook her head. "It's all my fault. I just shouldn't have mentioned going home with her around. It wouldn't even have been so bad if Phil hadn't defended me, but… If anything happened, it's my fault."

"Of course it isn't," John said gently. "Arguments happen. Just help us find her."

"I don't know where she went," Emmy sighed. "Just that she didn't return to Philly. And once my decision was finally made, I didn't want to stay in London, so the day after that row I came here. I didn't know she was still… missing…" She was still looking down.

"Yes, you did," Sherlock said calmly. "You thought she was hiding. But now you're not so sure. Right?"

The girl hesitated. "I don't know."

"Why would she be hiding? Why were you running home?" Sherlock asked. "What did you see?"

She bit her lip, almost in tears, and finally sat down on one of the chairs. "It was the night before the Banquet. We… We were just hiding from the cold together. But someone else knew the place. And we saw something bad happen." She swallowed.

"What did you see?" John repeated softly.

Emmy shook her head. "I think he saw us. He'll come after us sooner or later. I'd be safer here. But Ally had nowhere to go. She got angry that I left."

"What exactly happened?" Sherlock insisted.

Emmy was crying now. Her mother, who arrived with the coffee, sent a shocked look from her to the two men. "What's going on?"

John got up. "Maybe we should give them a moment to talk. I'll explain everything," he told her, walking to the kitchen.

Mrs Williams looked confused for a moment, but then followed him.

"I don't want mum to know," Emmy said in a small voice when they were gone.

"She does not need to," Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on her. "Now tell me. What did you see?"

"There was a man in dark clothes. I couldn't see him very well, but he was… He had Tori. And when he was… finished…" She suppressed a sob. "He saw us and we ran."

"Did you see his face? Or any other detail?"

Emmy shook her head.

"And Tori. Do you know what happened to her?"

She shifted in the chair. "We couldn't see much of her when we ran. But at the Banquet, we heard someone talk about her. She had been found." She closed her eyes and another tear escaped. "Dead," she whispered. "And we didn't help. We just ran…"

"So you decided to keep on running? All the way back home?" Sherlock sighed. "Leaving Ally behind."

Emmy hid her face in her hands. "I know. But I was so scared." She broke into heavy sobs.

"John!" Sherlock called, already heading for the front door. "John, we need to get back to London. Now!"

John came out of the kitchen. "What…?"

"Ally is not missing. She's hiding. I need to speak to Lestrade."

…

The file on the murder didn't tell them much. Tori had been raped and then strangled in an old abandoned shop in Soho, covered with some blankets that she had gotten earlier that day from the Rough Sleepers Initiative. She was discovered the next morning by a couple walking their dog. The attacker had not left any clues. At least none that the forensics team had been able to find and Sherlock was cursing foully that he had not had a chance to examine the scene.

In the end, Lestrade was starting to give him that look and John had to jump in once again to convince Sherlock that insulting the police wouldn't help. Once home, Sherlock skipped dinner again and flopped down on the bed to think. John only followed after throwing out the umbrella stand, which was now spreading a funny smell through the northern hall.


	16. Chapter 16

**Day 16 - December 21st**

John had almost finished his breakfast when he heard shouting outside. He frowned and looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting next to him, although once again he wouldn't touch the food.

Mycroft got up. "Freddie? What is going on?" he called.

The butler was a little out of breath as he returned to them. "Some vagrant sneaking onto the grounds, sir. I think I managed to scare him off. He kept calling he wanted to see Mr Holmes, but honestly I don't see what he'd want from you, sir."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "You imbecile," he said, standing up abruptly. "Have you not yet realised that my brother is not the only Holmes in the house these days? Go get him. And you better hope he hasn't left yet. Or I am charging you with obstruction of justice."

Freddie looked embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, sir. I'll fetch him right away."

"Don't worry, Freddie," Mycroft called after him, as he hurried off. "Sherlock has no power at all to do such a thing."

Sherlock glared at him. "Why do you insist on hiring such inferior staff?" he snapped, striding out into the hall to wait.

A few minutes later, Freddie, who was still slightly winded, returned with a very reluctant Phil in tow.

Sherlock waited patiently for almost five seconds before he snapped. "So? Why are you here?"

"Holmes… I'm sorry… I didn't know… I need to tell you…" Phil stammered and then broke down in tears.

Sherlock gestured for John to get the young man something to drink and then lay both hands on his shoulders. "I know," he said. "No one knew. But you're telling me now, right? So tell me everything. So we can help Ally."

Phil trembled but nodded. "The fight…" he muttered. "I thought it was just because of Ally's… background. Whenever anyone talks about their family or going home she gets so… upset. You know how she feels about her own family… What they did to her. And she's always projecting it on others. I thought… Emmy seemed so distressed, and I thought the last thing she needed was Ally forcing her own trauma on her. I said so. I said…" He shook his head. "It was bad. Really bad."

"I know," Sherlock said, nodding too and rubbing Phil's shoulders gently to calm him down. "You couldn't have known what was really going on. But you do now. Why?"

Phil took a couple of deep breaths. "I was down by the market. On Church Street. And I was talking to some of the girls there. One of them said she'd met Ally on Sunday and that she had seemed very nervous. Saying that she needed to speak to you. That she knew something. And she had to tell you."

"Knew what?" Sherlock asked but Phil just shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "The girls said that Ally wouldn't tell. She said that they'd be in danger too if she told them. And then she told them to never work alone." He sobbed. "That was the last… the last time anyone saw her."

When John returned with a glass of water, Sherlock had taken a step back and stood completely still, his eyes closed. Phil was watching him apprehensively.

"He's thinking," John said gently. "Better be quiet and wait a moment."

Suddenly Sherlock gasped and opened his eyes. "Oh… no…" He pushed Freddie, who was still standing by the door aside and rushed out without even grabbing his coat.

John shrugged at Phil and they ran after him.

Outside, Sherlock spotted Mycroft's driver, who was waiting by the car, ready to take his employer to work. "Baker Street," he yelled at the man, throwing himself into the backseat. "Now!"

Phil took the seat next to him and John jumped in in front.

The perplexed driver looked up to the front door where Mycroft had appeared. With a curt nod, he signalled to his driver that he should do as the younger Holmes ordered. He frowned deeply as he watched the car disappear, then turned and walked inside while dialling Lestrade's number.

Sherlock jumped out of the car and ran to the open door of 221B. He looked up the stairs to where a group of men were restoring their own flat. Then at Mrs Hudson's door, where the broken glass had been removed and replaced with a thin wooden board until the glazier could put in a new pane. Then, almost apprehensively, he looked around.

"Sherlock, what…" John started asking, but Sherlock made a gesture to shut him up.

Then the detective's eyes fell on the pile of rubble and broken floorboards that had been deposited to one side, effectively blocking the door leading to the basement flat that had never been rented out.

"Hey," he called to the men upstairs. "How long has this been here?" When a man appeared in the doorway to look down, he pointed to the pile in front of the door.

The man shrugged. "I don't know. Since Monday, I think. Why?"

Sherlock cursed. "Help me move it. Quickly."

John frowned. "Better step back," he mumbled to Phil.

"Why?" the workman asked again. Sherlock didn't answer, but began hauling broken beams out of the way. The man sighed and called out to this crew before lumbering downstairs to help.

It took almost ten minutes to move everything, but finally they got the door opened. Sherlock ran down the stairs, John right behind him.

The door to the flat was open, and the smell confirmed their worst fears before they saw her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Day 17 - December 22nd**

Sherlock was lying on his back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't slept one bit.

John could see the tension in his expression and the way his jaw was set, right from the moment he opened his eyes. He sighed at the memory of the previous day. Poor Ally's body, Phil crying hysterically, and Sherlock's face as he had taken in the scene. From that moment on, it had seemed like the detective had tuned out from the events. He had dully answered Lestrade's questions and not spoken one word since the ride home.

John shifted a little closer to Sherlock. "Hey," he said. "You okay?"

At first, Sherlock did not respond. Then he shook his head. "No," he said. "It does not make sense."

John took his hand. "It was the last place where we would go look for her. No one could have thought she was there."

"I could have. If I had just had all the information. Why are people so reluctant to tell the truth? Don't they see that their lies only make it worse?"

"I know," John sighed. "Poor Ally."

"Foolish Ally, you mean," Sherlock said. "Why did she stay at Baker Street? When she saw the flat was uninhabitable, she should have contacted Lestrade. I've told them all that if it's really really urgent and they can't reach me, he will help them, no questions asked. But instead she got herself trapped downstairs. It was stupid. Ally wasn't stupid. She would never have survived on the streets that long if she was."

John frowned. "Do you think someone locked her in?"

"John… Don't be stupid… The door wasn't locked. You were there. She was sleeping down there when they moved the rubble and trapped her. But she could have made herself known at any time while the workers were in the building. Why did she stay down there?"

"Right…" John sighed. "Maybe she was scared."

"Of course she was." Sherlock sat up. "But why? There was no indication that the killer knew who she was or that he was even trying to find the ones who had seen him. They could not have provided any new information anyway. And he must have known. His face was hidden and they were far off. The crime scene told the police more than they could have done even if they had not been too scared."

John sat up too and put an arm around Sherlock's waist. "I guess we'll never know what she was thinking."

"Yes, we will. As soon as I find out what happened between the banquet and Ally speaking to those girls in Church Street. What it was that she wanted to tell me. What she was _trying_ to tell me."

"Do you think she was attempting to write something? Those lines on the floor with the shirt buttons?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Ally couldn't write. She was severely dyslexic. No… She was drawing something. But I just can't figure out what." He jumped up and began pacing. "I need pictures," he said. "Lestrade is going to pay for confiscating my phone…"

John frowned. "He's just doing his job, Sherlock."

"His job is to solve crimes. Ally's death was not a crime."

"It was the result of one. But I'll talk to Lestrade," John said.

"I doubt that will help," Sherlock said. "He was clearly acting on orders. Why else would he take it? He's never objected to my documenting scenes before."

"But who would order him to do that?" John frowned.

Sherlock sighed. "Think," he said.

"I don't see what Mycroft thinks to earn from obstructing your work. Except for revenge for his umbrella stand."

"He may think that this is not related to… work…" Sherlock said glumly.

John frowned. "There was a dead girl in the cellar under our flat. How does he think she got there if it wasn't related to your work?"

Sherlock stood for a moment, as if considering his words. Then he turned away, heading for the bathroom. "Ask Mycroft," he snapped.

John sighed and got up to get dressed.

…

Mycroft was sitting in the living room, reading a book. He looked up when John came in. "Good morning, John. Is something wrong?"

John indeed didn't look exactly happy and he didn't feel like wasting time on greeting Mycroft. "Why can't Sherlock have his phone back?" he asked.

Mycroft looked mildly surprised. "I'd thought you would be pleased that that particular distraction was eliminated."

John snorted. "Seriously, Mycroft. Sherlock can't work like this."

"I'm sure he can," Mycroft shrugged, looking back at his book.

John stepped closer. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I? Then what would you call putting a singing Santa in someone's wardrobe?"

"I know this isn't retaliation," John said. "You don't trust him. You think the homeless network is a risk where it's just the opposite. He is clean, Mycroft."

Mycroft's expression showed a little more interest when he looked up again. "You actually believe he tells you everything?" Mycroft shook his head. "You should know better. But then again… he _is _my brother. He has obviously become even more skilled than I realised."

John rolled his eyes. "Tell Greg that Sherlock needs the information - and his phone. I'd think he is in more danger when _I_ can't reach him than he could possibly be when others can. I am taking care of him, you know. Stop your insufferable meddling and he'll be fine."

Mycroft just gave him one of his painful smiles and didn't react. John huffed and stomped out.

…

Two hours later, Lestrade called John to let him know that though they could not release Sherlock's phone yet, he'd sent them the pictures of the scene of Ally's death, in the hopes that he could help give them definite proof that it was nothing but an accident, so they could close the case and focus on more pressing matters.

Sherlock was ambivalent when he received the pictures, his desire to explore the riddle battling his impulse to be stubborn and uncooperative as long as his phone was being held hostage.

He bullied Freddie into giving him access to Mycroft's laptop so he could print the photos, and then proceeded to nail them to the wall of the sitting room, so that he could stand back and study them while he let his mind work.

Early in the evening, it became apparent that an eruption was imminent as he had failed completely in making any kind of sense of the squiggly lines and scattered buttons. He slumped down in a chair, pulling at his hair as he muttered to John, "Call Lestrade. It was not a murder. He can close the case." Then he curled up in the chair and refused to speak or even look up for several hours.

Eventually, John kneeled in front of his chair and wrapped his arms around him. "You look like you can use a distraction," he mumbled, pressing his nose against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock tensed for a moment, then nodded. "Make it a good one," he whispered.

John kissed him. "Bedroom?"

Sherlock glanced around the room. "Is my brother home?" he asked.

John nodded.

"In his office?" Sherlock asked with a small grin.

John smiled. "I'm afraid so. We can't do that again."

"He's in his office," Sherlock said. "Which means he's not here…"

"Well, sit up then," John smirked.

Sherlock unfolded himself and sat up. Then he pulled John close for a long slow kiss.

John hummed against his lips. Eventually he pulled back and softly sank his teeth in Sherlock's neck while his left hand fumbled with his belt.

Sherlock gasped and shifted to make it easier for John, before reaching for the button on John's jeans. He chuckled breathlessly when he felt the bulge already straining at the zipper and quickly opened it and then pulled the jeans down along with the pants. He wrapped his long fingers around John's cock and began stroking him slowly.

"So impatient," John mumbled, still kissing his neck while he undid Sherlock's trousers. Then he sat back to look into Sherlock's eyes. "Maybe I should let you wait…"

"No…" Sherlock protested, moving his hand faster. "I need you. Please…"

John smirked and gave him a quick kiss before leaning back. "Then make sure I can reach you."

Sherlock nodded and got to his feet, smiling down at John as he pulled down his trousers and pants. "Like this?" he asked.

John smirked and didn't hesitate a moment before grabbing Sherlock's hips and licking up his shaft. "Yep, that helps," he chuckled, before taking him in his mouth.

Sherlock closed his eyes and rocked his hips gently, while running a hand through John's hair. "You're too good to me," he whispered.

John moved his hands further and squeezed Sherlock's bum while he sucked.

Sherlock gasped and moved his hips faster. "Fuck, John…" he muttered. "I want you… now…" Gently he pushed John away and then pulled him to his feet, kissing him hungrily as soon as he could reach his lips.

John smiled and tangled a hand in Sherlock's hair, pushing him back towards the chair as he answered the kiss just as eagerly.

Sherlock sank down into the chair, pulling John along. With a bit of shifting he had John in his lap.

John didn't stop kissing him. "Tell me exactly what you want," he purred teasingly.

Sherlock didn't answer, but reached behind John to position his cock and then pushed up hard and fast, pulling John down.

"Oh," John moaned, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. "I can definitely live with that." He lifted himself a little and sank down again.

Sherlock growled. With his hands back on John's hips he began moving. He leaned in to kiss John's neck and then sucked on it hard.

John whimpered, just holding on. "More," he managed to gasp. "Don't hold back."

Sherlock didn't, and soon he was moaning and panting as he moved ever faster. Then he tensed and with one final loud groan came, deep inside John.

"Oh, god," John panted, still clinging to him with his eyes closed. He reached between them and with just a few strokes, he was clenching around Sherlock, breathing his name.

Giggling and rather ruffled, they managed to make it up to their room without being spotted by Mycroft or Freddie. In the shower, Sherlock showed John just how grateful he was for the distraction he had provided. Once in bed, John pulled Sherlock very close to him and they were both asleep within minutes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Day 18 - December 23rd**

Sherlock woke early and managed to sneak out without waking John. He even somehow got out of the house before Mycroft was alerted and was on the bus without giving his brother the chance to send Freddie to look for him.

John woke up feeling rather cold. Somehow the blanket had gotten off his left shoulder completely, leaving the old wound rather stiff. A hot shower would probably do wonders. Shame that Sherlock had already gotten up.

Only when he arrived downstairs, did he realise that Sherlock had not just left the bedroom.

"Sir," Freddie said, startling John as he was suddenly standing behind him, "Mr Holmes has asked me to tell you that he told you so."

"What?" John turned around and frowned.

"Mr Sherlock has left early this morning. Apparently Mr Holmes had predicted that this would happen," Freddie explained.

"Ah. So I guess _Mr Sherlock_ didn't mention where he was going," John said.

"No, sir."

"Good thing too. It's none of Mycroft's business." John walked away, taking his phone from his pocket before realising Sherlock still didn't have his. He cursed Mycroft and returned to the bedroom for a boring day on his own.

Sherlock returned late in the afternoon, grinning as he hung his coat by the door and then rushed up the stairs to find John.

"Hey," John said, looking up from where he was sitting on the bed as the door was flung open. "Where've you been?"

"Out," Sherlock said, crawling onto the bed to give him a kiss. "What have you been up to?"

John shrugged. "Went to pick up my presents with Mike. And no, you can't know where I hid them. And I had another row with Mycroft."

"Oh…" Sherlock frowned. "About me. I'm sorry."

John shrugged. "It's not your fault he's a git. So where _have_ you been?"

"In the city," Sherlock said evasively. "Taking care of some things."

"Case-related?" John asked.

"Not really," Sherlock said. "Though I did go by Church Street to talk to the girls. They had, as I expected, nothing to add to Phil's story, but it was better to check than to risk missing something."

John smiled. "That's true. Any new ideas on that… drawing?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "I don't know… I'm sure she meant something by it, but I just don't have enough data to figure it out."

"It'll come to you," John said. "Can we go out for dinner tonight? I really don't feel like meeting Mycroft again today."

Sherlock nodded. "I'd love to," he said and stood up again, holding out his hand to John. "Where would you like to go?"


	19. Chapter 19

**Day 19 - December 24th**

At breakfast, things were almost back to normal. Sherlock was not eating and Mycroft had, almost, stopped glaring at his younger brother. Just as John and Sherlock were about to stand, Freddie came in and handed his employer a piece of paper.

"Ah," Mycroft smiled. "Mummy has answered my invitation for tonight."

Sherlock stared at him. "You've invited Mummy?" he asked. "When were you planning on telling us?"

"Well, as you know, she doesn't like all the modern technology, so I was waiting for her letter. Like you see, it has only arrived now, so why would I let you know before I was certain?" Mycroft said, smugly folding the letter again and putting it next to his plate.

"So I'd have time to make other plans," Sherlock said. "Obviously…" He whirled around and left.

Mycroft shook his head and directed himself to John. "You will make sure he'll be here, right? He can't keep avoiding his own mother."

John shifted on his chair. "I'm not so sure I want to see her after… last time."

"John," Mycroft said. "You cannot deny an elderly woman the pleasure of spending Christmas Eve with both her sons."

John shrugged. "I guess that depends on what cases come up. I'll, er, do my best to convince Sherlock…"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, clearly not believing him, but he let him leave the table without another word.

...

"Okay, Sherlock, what's the plan?" John asked as he joined him in their bedroom.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know… Run for it?" he suggested.

John snorted. "We should have a good excuse. Like a case. Otherwise Mycroft won't stop nagging about it."

"True," Sherlock said. "Can't you go steal something, so I can catch you?"

John chuckled. "I doubt that I could keep you busy for long. Well, _before_ the catching, that is."

Sherlock laughed. "So? I'm sure neither Mycroft nor Mummy would be inclined to come fetch us under such circumstances."

John snorted. "Maybe we should just get ourselves kidnapped."

"Yes, that would work too. Do you know any kidnappers looking for a job?"

"Not that I can immediately think of. Shame Mrs Hudson is with her sister, or we could use her as an excuse…"

Sherlock was about to answer when his phone rang. After listening for just a moment he brightened up. "Yes, of course, Ms Hart. I would love to hear more. We were thinking about stopping by to thank you and Maggie for your help. Today perhaps?"

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was pushing John into a cab, ignoring the indignant voice of his brother, demanding to know where they were going.

…

"Welcome," Maggie said when she opened the door. "Please come in."

They followed her back to the living room, where Evelyn immediately got up as she saw them.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, so good of you to come," she said, gesturing for them to sit. "We heard about the poor girl. Such a terrible tragedy."

John nodded. "I understand you wanted to talk to us about a new project you are starting?"

She nodded. "Yes. It's an idea I've had for years, but these events have convinced me that it is the right thing to do. And that there is no time to waste." She smiled up at Maggie as she brought the tea, then continued. "I want to create a shelter. For women and girls. And not like those others you hear about where terrible things happen and many are afraid to come. No. It should be a true haven. A place to bathe, rest and also find safety when life on the street becomes dangerous. It should be staffed at all times. With people capable of both defending the girls and aiding them when needed. A doctor should be on call. And a counselor."

"Sounds expensive," Sherlock said, sipping his tea.

"Yes, that is the biggest problem," she said. "It will require a lot of funds. Which is why I intend to hold a large fundraiser at the start of the new year. And that is also why I wanted to talk to you again."

"How can we help?" John asked. "By making a donation?"

"Anything you could spare would of course be welcome," she said. "But I was hoping for something a little more… hands on." She took a deep breath. "Mr Holmes. I would like you to be our ambassador. And to host the benefit ball."

Sherlock froze, but John smiled. "What exactly does that function imply?"

She chuckled. "Oh, he wouldn't have to do much. Just show up, shake some hands and smile. And of course give a speech, explaining why the shelter is needed. I know Mr Holmes cares about the homeless of our city and that his views on the matter would be heard and taken to heart by many."

"A speech?" Sherlock stared at her.

Maggie nodded eagerly as she sat down next to Evelyn.

"Well, why not?" John smiled. "It certainly sounds like a good cause."

Sherlock glared at him. "I don't do speeches," he hissed. "You know that."

"But surely it wouldn't have to be long, would it?" John said, looking at Evelyn.

She shook her head. "Of course not. Just… maybe tell them about what happened to Ally and then explain how such a place could have saved the life of her and many like her."

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said.

"Such a shame," Maggie sighed. "Where else will we find a speaker that would attract as many people? You have become quite famous, Mr Holmes. It would really help us."

"John is famous too," Sherlock said. "He can do it."

John shrugged. "I'm just, you know, the sidekick. Everyone knows you're the real genius. They'd rather listen to you."

"They'd rather read your blog than my website. They'd rather want your version. You… you know how to… dumb things down…"

John snorted. "Thanks a lot… Sorry for that," he told the two women.

Evelyn laughed. "It's quite alright. We know how he can be. We do read your blog after all."

Sherlock jumped to his feet, his mouth open as if he wanted to speak. But no words came and after a moment he turned and stalked out of the room. When they heard the front door slam, Evelyn frowned and turned to John. "I'm sorry," she said. "I did not mean to offend him."

"He'll be fine," John said. "I'd just better go after him. I'll let you know if he'll do it or not, but you'll understand I can't promise he will."

Evelyn nodded and stood up. "I hope I have not inconvenienced you. I'm sure you have better places to be on a day like this."

John smiled. "Not at all. Good luck with the project."

Outside the house, John looked around and only just saw a tall figure in a dark coat by the end of the street before it went around the corner. He sighed and ran after him. "Sherlock!"

He was slightly out of breath by the time he caught up with him. "Sherlock, could you just behave for once? Do you really have to get so childish every time my blog is mentioned?"

Sherlock huffed as he continued walking briskly. "I'm not being childish. I just don't have time for such… nonsense."

"It's a really good cause and you know it! It would just be, what, five minutes of talking? It's hardly an effort and yet you could help them so much by doing it," John said.

"No," Sherlock said. "I don't care. I'm not doing it."

John sighed. "How about making it part of our bet?"

Sherlock stopped and glared at him. "No," he said. "Definitely not."

"Why not? You're always so sure you'll win. So if you do, it won't even matter," John said.

Sherlock considered for a moment. "Fine," he said. "But only if you promise not to mention it again. To me _or _Mycroft. Or Mummy."

"Okay," John smiled. "So… No kidnappers around. What are we going to do?"

"You can kidnap me," Sherlock suggested. "Force me into some nice hotel and hold me there over night until I finally give in and pay the ransom. Shall we say… two pounds?"

John snorted. "I'm not forcing you into a hotel. That would mean losing the bet. Your mother isn't _that_ bad… Maybe we should just go back and get it over with. Make her happy to see you."

"I don't want to," Sherlock groaned. "If it was just her, it would be fine. But her _and _Mycroft. I… I just can't do it."

"It's just one evening. And maybe we can excuse ourselves quite early, saying we have some Christmas tradition going for just the two of us. Or something," John said.

"Fine…" Sherlock threw up his hands in surrender. "But we're staying out until the last moment. I'll do dinner, but that's it."

"Deal," John smiled.

…

"Oh, boys," Mummy sighed when Sherlock and John came down to the dining room. "You could at least _try_ to make it less obvious what you have just been up to."

John went as red as his tie. "Good evening, Mrs Holmes," he mumbled.

She shook her head and waved at the chairs. "I hope that _this_ year you don't plan to make your own fireworks, Sherlock, as you have already made one flat explode this month?" she informed.

"My fireworks were just fine," Sherlock said. "They would have been perfect if Mycroft hadn't decided to drown them."

"Oh, they would have been," Mycroft nodded, "and if you had been smart enough to ignite them _outside_, I would probably even have enjoyed them just as much."

John had to suppress a smile as he looked at Sherlock.

"I had made all the calculations," Sherlock said. "The sparks would never have reached that tapestry. And the mirrors would have increased the visual effect greatly."

"Like I told you so many years ago, you had made a mistake in the calculations," Mycroft said.

"Of course I hadn't," Sherlock said. "You were just being a big fat chicken."

"Yes, you had," Mycroft said haughtily.

"Boys, you're not twelve anymore," Mummy sighed.

John suppressed a giggle. "Sometimes I'm not so sure."

"Do you still have the drawing of a whale on your wall?" Mummy asked Mycroft.

"Of course not!" Mycroft sputtered indignantly.

"Shame," she said a little dreamily. "It was quite beautiful. Back then I was hoping that Sherlock had indeed inherited my uncle's talents for painting."

"Mummy," Mycroft said between clenched teeth, "he was calling me a _whale_. You were not supposed to be _proud_ of him. See what has become of him."

John raised his eyebrows. "And thus the most powerful man in Britain was whining to his mother about his little brother. These Christmas dinners actually are even more surreal than I had imagined."

Sherlock glanced over at him. "So you think this was a bad idea?" he said, softly.

"Oh, no," John grinned. "It may cost me a few cracked ribs by the end of the evening, but I'm sure I'll enjoy this."

"Okay," Sherlock whispered. "I'll endure for your sake. But I expect to be recompensed afterwards. A lot."

"Of course," John whispered back, smiling.

"Could you perhaps not discuss this kind of things at the dining table?" Mummy asked. "It might make Mycroft feel lonely."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about him," Sherlock said. "He's already gotten some this month."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed.

"Oh, not that poor police officer again, I hope?" Mummy groaned.

Mycroft actually blushed. "Of course not. He is back with his wife."

"Was," Sherlock said, before sipping his wine, smiling smugly.

"Yes, of course that wasn't going to last long," Mummy said, "but you could at least have waited until he was single again, Mycroft."

"Yes, Mummy," Mycroft sighed.

"So what about you two?" Mummy asked, directing herself to Sherlock and John. "Any chance I will eventually see any grandchildren?"

John choked on his sip of wine and started coughing.


	20. Chapter 20

**Day 20 - Christmas Day**

"I'm sorry, John. But you're just going to have to wait. I'm not giving you your gift until tonight."

John pouted. "But you expect yours this morning? That's not fair."

Sherlock shrugged. "If you really want to, I suppose I can wait until tonight too. But I'm giving you yours over dinner. At a restaurant. Not here."

"You hopeless romantic," John chuckled, bringing over the breakfast tray Freddie had just brought to their room along with the presents. "You can have yours when we've finished breakfast, then. It'll be a little heavy to drag along to the restaurant."

Sherlock smiled and helped him settle the tray. "Sounds good," he said, then glanced at the most beautifully wrapped gift. "Oh… I see Mummy has gotten us a new tea set. How thoughtful, considering the old one was at the frontline during the… accident."

"Maybe that's a good idea as an extra gift to Mrs Hudson too," John smiled. "Anything else you can already deduce?"

Sherlock frowned. "Did you get me two gifts?" he asked.

John smiled. "Yep."

Sherlock looked at him and smiled. "I'm not even going to try to guess what's inside," he said. Then he picked up Mycroft's gift and wrinkled his nose. "As if I'd accept a laptop from him. It would take longer to clear all the bugs out of it than to build a new one from scratch." He took the large square box and deposited it to the side. "We can regift that to Molly."

"Quite an expensive gift, though," John said. "Let's hope she doesn't think too much of it when you give her something like that." He smiled.

When they had finished their breakfast, John put the tray on the small table. "Shall we keep mine for last?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll take the one from Mummy and you can open the j… that one from Harry."

John brought the gifts over to the bed and sat down next to Sherlock again. He snorted when he had torn the paper enough to see what was inside. "A jigsaw puzzle? Is she serious?" He threw the paper off the bed and looked at the figure on top of it.

"What is that supposed to be?" Sherlock asked. "Some kind of expressionistic dragon?"

"I think it's supposed to be a map of London," John said. "Not that anyone would find their way on this…" He put the box down next to the bed. "That's quite a beautiful teapot though."

"Yes, a lot can be said about Mummy, but she's got great taste."

John smiled. "Time for mine, then. I'll start with the one I found for you first. It's just silly, but I had no idea and thought I'd better buy it in case I didn't find anything better. So there you go." He handed Sherlock the small gift.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed him before he started unwrapping the gift.

"Oh John, it's… lovely," he said when he was holding up the new magnifying glass, which had an animal engraved on top of the casing. "Is that a… moose?"

John snorted. "It's a reindeer, silly. And I know it's ridiculous. I was getting quite desperate."

"No, John. It's perfect," Sherlock said, kissing him again. "I doubt my old one survived the blast."

John smiled, seeming to grow a little at the praise. "Well then. I'm glad you like it. Despite the not-moose." He let out a giggle.

Sherlock smiled and glanced at the other gift. "Time for that one?" he asked.

"Unless you want to wait until tonight?" John grinned.

"Will it make any difference?" Sherlock asked.

"Maybe not. It might even be better if you can give it some attention." John used two hands to lift the remaining present, which looked like it could hold a bottle of wine in a rectangular box, though it was shorter than a regular bottle would be. "Careful," he smiled.

Sherlock placed the gift in his lap and began unwrapping it slowly. He lifted the box so he could move the paper aside, trying not to shift it, and then opened the lid.

"It's a book end," John smiled as Sherlock looked down at the otter, delicately cut out of dark, heavy wood. "Made in the 19th century. I found it at the market, so I didn't even need to enter an antiques shop for it." He smiled. "But it's not so much about the thing itself. There's a story behind it. I've hidden the old manuscript for now - it's quite beautiful on its own, so we might hang it in the flat. It tells the story of the book end. So I thought that maybe you could deduce what happened with it first. It's just silly, but…"

Before John could say another word, Sherlock took the box and put it carefully on the nightstand, then pulled John into a very long and deep kiss. "It's perfect," he whispered when they pulled back for air. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," John beamed, kissing him again. "You're really difficult to buy gifts for, you know."

"I beg to differ," Sherlock said, pulling John closer. "I think you'll find I am very easy to please."

John chuckled and rocked his hips against him. "Merry Christmas, love."

The teapot almost fell to the floor as Sherlock pulled John down on top of him, trying to keep their lips locked together while he peeled off John's pyjamas.

…

John shook his head at the puzzle as he returned from the bathroom. "It's really horrid," he said.

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. He was lying on the bed, studying the otter intently. "This isn't," he said, turning the figure over. Then he rolled onto his stomach, placing it in front of him and leaning so close that his nose was almost touching that of the wooden animal.

John smiled. "Did you see the small chip that's missing at the back of its head?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to comment.

John chuckled. "You almost look a little like it when you look like that." Then he glanced back at the puzzle. "I'd really have preferred she just sent me an ugly jumper. I could at least wear that. What am I supposed to do with this? I don't even dare to donate it to Evelyn's homeless project. They'd all get lost. The shape is not even…" He frowned and stopped. Then he grabbed his dressing robe and ran out of the room with the box, without even bothering to tie the belt.

"Sherlock!" he called from downstairs.

Sherlock looked up and was for a moment confused by John's absence. Then he put the otter aside and hurried downstairs. He smiled when he saw John standing in the sitting room, his robe hanging open and his hair still ruffled from their morning shag. He walked over and wrapped his arms around John. "What is it?" he purred.

"Look!" John exclaimed, waving the box in front of him, towards the pictures Sherlock had nailed onto the wall.

It took a moment. Then Sherlock gasped and ran to the wall. "The magnifying glass," he ordered. "On the nightstand. Get it."

John ran off and did as he was asked.

When he returned, Sherlock was already on the phone with Lestrade, rattling off locations in London. He took the glass from John and examined the pictures before giving more details. Then he waited. As Lestrade spoke again, Sherlock's face lit up in a wide grin. He turned to John and whispered, "I love you," before promising Lestrade that they would be right down.

He tossed the phone aside and pulled John into a very passionate kiss. "Thank you," he said. "This is the best Christmas present ever. The buttons… They're dead women!"

…

It did not take Sherlock long to confirm that all the cases of dead homeless women that had been filed as unsolved over the last ten years, were connected. "A real live serial killer," Sherlock said happily, as he began covering the walls and windows in Lestrade's office with reports and pictures. "And a clever one." He chuckled happily as he accepted the coffee John had brought him and then set to studying the old cases.

"How exactly did he discover this?" Lestrade asked John, speaking softly so as not to disturb the genius at work.

John smiled. "Well, actually it's all thanks to my sister. She sent me this horrible jigsaw, like a bright-coloured children's drawing of a map of London. And suddenly I realised where I had seen something like it before. Until then, we didn't have a clue what Ally's drawing meant. But then Sherlock saw it, and he connected the dots, or rather the buttons..."

Lestrade frowned. "And all this time, no one has realised that these crimes were committed by the same man..."

"Of course not," Sherlock cut in. "He's smart. Targeting the homeless who already live dangerous lives. Homeless people disappear all the time. They move on. Or go home. Or are killed by their peers in fights for shelter, food or drugs. And the murders were spread out so far both in time and space, that they were lost amongst all the other deaths and disappearances." He turned to look at them. "Odds are that these are not the only victims. There may be many more that have just not been found. Or found in such a state that the cause of death was untraceable and they have been written off as accidents or natural causes. But..." He turned to look at the pictures again. "How did Ally know? She was just a kid when the first murder was committed. Living with her family, far away. How could she know the locations of bodies long since buried?"

"Maybe she heard it from others," John shrugged. "Older friends of hers."

"But that would mean that there is someone out there who knows that these murders are connected. Don't you see, John?" Sherlock said, turning to him again. "The only person who knew this, before today, is the killer. Ally can only have found out from him. But why would he tell her?"

John frowned. "Why indeed?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "Yet. Once again it has become urgent that we find out exactly what Ally did and where she went after the banquet."

"And maybe you should have another look at the forensics report of the last murder, knowing what you know now," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "While I do that, you can try to convince my brother to have someone check if she has been caught on camera during that time."

_End note: Feel free to enter your deductions on the otter's history here in the comments! Who knows, maybe if your stories are good there may be a prize..._


	21. Chapter 21

**Day 21 - Boxing Day**

The report revealed nothing new. Tori had been raped but there were no physical traces. The killer must have used a condom. She had been strangled by gloved hands. Leather gloves, that had recently been treated with a rather exclusive leather dressing containing large quantities of beeswax. The killer was not a tall man. At least, he did not have very large hands and since those were often connected to height, Sherlock noted that they were looking for a man of 5 foot 8 or less.

The footage Mycroft provided was not much help either. Ally had been hiding for most of the time, it seemed. Only once had a camera caught her at a bus stop near Canary Wharf. She had searched the ground and a bin and then moved on. It had been early on the 15th, only a few hours before she had talked to the girls in Church Street.

At least it seemed that they now knew when she had met the killer, since she had not seemed overly agitated at the bus stop. Sherlock had found a large map of London and had marked the locations of all the murders, including Tori's, as well as the places where Ally had been seen since the Banquet of the Heart.

He was standing in front of the map when he suddenly gasped and ran to the wall where the pictures of Ally's map had been hung. He studied them all closely and then laughed. "Clever girl," he said. "Clever, clever girl."

"What did you see?" John asked.

Sherlock pointed. "Do you see that dead bug near Wapping? It's a house. An address at least. Somewhere she wanted us to find."

John frowned. "Are you sure? I mean... It's a dead bug. In a cellar. It can just have dropped there..."

Sherlock sighed, though he didn't really sound all that irritated. "That bug was killed," he said. "Hit with a shoe, it seems. Not stepped on. Hit. So Ally must have killed it, which means it didn't just crawl there and expire after she was dead. She went to a lot of trouble making that map. An OCD-level of trouble actually. She would not just have left it there. She placed it there on purpose. So, she must have had a reason. It's not just another dead body, because she had more buttons left she could have used. The dead bug is different. It's disturbing. It's the killer. That is where she met the killer. That is where she learned of all the other victims." He turned to the door and bellowed, "Lestrade!"

…

Within half an hour, Sherlock had the profile ready. "Okay people," he said to the sourly group gathered in the briefing room. "We're looking for a single man. Age between 30 and 50. Someone who has lived in the neighbourhood for at least a decade. Someone below average height. Like John. And with a part time job. Or something freelance. Maybe someone who travels."

Everyone muttered mutinously. Finally Donovan spoke up. "Come on, Sir. It's Boxing Day. We are supposed to be home with our families. Not looking for an imaginary serial killer just because the freak got bored stuffing John's stocking."

John rolled his eyes. "A girl has been killed. Even if he hasn't got anything to do with all the other cases, the killer is still out there. Isn't it your job to do something about that?"

"Yes, but that killer could be anywhere. I doubt we'll find him based on where a cockroach decided to snuff it on some homeless girl's fingerpainting project."

"It's been put there," John said. "It has a meaning."

"And we know that because…?"

As Sherlock launched into a long complicated description of how he could tell that the bug had not died of natural causes, most of the team began leaving the room, figuring the sooner they got started, the sooner they'd be done.

A small list of possible suspects was compiled and two teams sent out to start a door to door. But soon the reports started coming back: there was no one in the neighbourhood of the right height who did not have a solid alibi for the time of Tori's death. Soon all single men in the age group had been visited and Donovan concluded smugly that the freak had clearly made the whole thing up.

Sherlock seemed about to explode and Lestrade quickly sent the sergeant away, telling her to widen the search.

"No," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head. "The area is right. It must be something else. Something I've missed." He began pacing the office, mumbling.

John frowned, thinking. "How could Ally know where he lives? According to Emmy, they didn't even see him very clearly."

Sherlock turned to him. "John, you've done it again," he exclaimed. "How is it that you always manage to ask the right questions?"

John smiled. "I thought I was just pointing out the obvious again."

"If Ally didn't find the killer, the killer must have found _her_," he said. "Probably approached her down by Canary Wharf and then brought her to his home." He turned to Lestrade. "Have your people start knocking on doors again. But this time we're looking for witnesses. Bored housewives or single seniors. Nosy kids or teenagers. Anyone who would have noticed and remembered one of their neighbours bringing home a scruffy-looking young girl around midday on the 15th."

Lestrade nodded and went out to give the order.

Sherlock smiled and held out a hand to John. "Thank you," he said. "You have really made this the best Christmas ever. And it just keeps getting better."

"Let's just hope we can find him before he strikes again," John said.

"Oh, it's always been at least six months between killings," Sherlock said. "We've got plenty of time."

"Might he not get suspicious with all the police around where he lives? Maybe they've even talked to him about it. We can't have him flee out of fear of being caught," John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "If he tries to flee, we'll know who it is. It's better for him to stay put and hope we cannot identify him."

John nodded. "But we can hardly go and ask him if he's the killer."

Sherlock laughed. "True. But once we know who he is, I'm sure we'll find a way to expose him."

…

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but it's getting late. We can't afford overtime for something like this, and besides, people are about to sit down for dinner. We'll pick it up again tomorrow." Lestrade turned and left before Sherlock could protest. Pulling on his hair in frustration, the detective turned to John.

"Well," he said. "I guess this means we'll have to do it ourselves. If we divide the streets between us, we should be able to cover it in 3 to 4 hours."

John hesitated. "Are you sure? I mean, I know how important this is. But how likely do you think it is that people want to interrupt their dinners to give us more information on a night like this?"

Sherlock huffed. "What do you suggest then? We can't start breaking into houses looking for clues."

John smiled. "No, that wasn't what I was thinking of. Maybe we should just take a moment for our own Christmas. I remember talking about a certain gift..."

Sherlock frowned for a moment and then paled. "Oh my god," he said. "I'm so sorry, John. I... I have no gift for you..."

"Oh..." John's face fell for just a moment. "But yesterday you said you had. You were going to give it to me over dinner."

Sherlock nodded, not meeting John's eyes. "I had one," he said. "But... I forgot about it. And now it's too late..."

John looked confused, but smiled. "Okay. So you at least thought of something. I appreciate that. What was it?"

Sherlock sighed. Then he walked over to John and took his hands. He looked into his eyes and smiled. "I had bought us tickets for a cruise. Sailing up along the coast of Norway and celebrating New Years north of the Arctic Circle." He gave John's hands a squeeze.

John stared up at him. "Really? You wanted..." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him. "That would have been fantastic."

Sherlock nodded. "I thought so too. But the ship sailed at midnight. And they're not making port before Tromsø. So there is no way we can get on board."

"I still really like the idea. Thank you," John said, stroking Sherlock's cheek. Then suddenly he laughed. "That's how you were so sure you'd win the bet!"

Sherlock grinned and nodded. "Yeah."

John smiled. "I'd happily have lost for that. But well, you'll have to accept there is a good chance I'll win now."

Sherlock nodded. "I know," he said. "But catching this killer will be worth it, I think."

"So do I. And there is always _something_ you can give me..." John smiled smugly. "Let's go home."

Sherlock gave John a soft kiss. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."


	22. Chapter 22

**Day 22 - December 27th**

"It's no use, Sherlock," John said for the third time that morning. "They're still going around. They _will_ let us know when they find something of use. But right now, we'd only get in the way of the police."

Sherlock walked from the door to the window for the eleventh time or more that morning. "I know," he groaned. "But I can't stand this horrible _waiting_…"

John got up from the bed. "Come here. It's still early, there's only a small chance they'll call right away. Try to put it out of your mind for just… a moment."

"It could also be hours. Hours and hours of just waiting. Here! In my brother's house." Sherlock walked to the door again, almost reaching for the handle. "I can't stand it. I'm going to go insane."

John took his hand and pulled him back. "It wouldn't help if you were somewhere else. And at least there are… other things… we can do here." He glanced at the bed. "Unless you want to think."

"Think?" Sherlock huffed. "About what? About how I'm stuck? Stuck here and stuck in the case…" He kicked a chair and watched it fall, looking just a little pleased. Then he began pacing again.

"Okay, so no thinking. That's fine. I can work with that." John started to unbutton his shirt.

Sherlock didn't even glance at him but went over to the window to glare down at the tranquillity of Mycroft's garden, as if it was responsible for all the misery in the world.

Once John had taken off everything but his pants, he stepped up behind Sherlock and put his hands on his shoulders, massaging gently. "Come to bed."

Sherlock huffed again and turned to push John away. But then he finally realised what John had been up to and chuckled. "Oh… Yes… I see…" he said, putting his hands on John's hips. "Good plan."

John smiled. "It's about the only way to keep you from going insane right now. You'll have to accept it." He chuckled too.

Sherlock nodded and opened the two top buttons of his shirt before pulling it over his head. "You're the doctor, John. I'll trust you on this," he said, before pulling him into a kiss.

John moaned softly and pushed him onto the bed, efficiently opening his trousers and pulling them off before he climbed on top of him.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and smiled up at John. "What did you have in mind?" he asked.

"More of what we did last night?" John purred, before kissing him again.

"Then you better get those pants off," Sherlock said, reaching for the lube.

…

"It's just down here," Lestrade said. "Number 17. The old woman gave a description that fits Ally almost perfectly. She wasn't quite sure if it was on the 14th or the 15th, but I think it's safe to say that we have the witness we need."

"Yes," Sherlock snapped as he walked even faster than usual. "We appreciate you calling. And such excellent timing."

"You couldn't know that," John told Lestrade apologetically.

Lestrade looked back and forth between them, confused. Then he blushed. "Fuck… I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Oh, don't be. Sherlock was all impatient anyway. I mean," John added quickly, "about hearing some news."

"Yes," Sherlock said, glancing back at John over his shoulder. "But the news have better be good."

"I… I hope so," Lestrade said, suddenly seeming a little uncomfortable. "Her description certainly was accurate. And the time was right."

Sherlock stopped and turned to glare at him. "But…?" he prompted. "What's wrong with her information?"

"Nothing…" Lestrade said hastily. "Some of it is just… unexpected."

Sherlock frowned, then turned and ran up the steps to number 17 and knocked hard on the door.

"There is a bell," John pointed out, but the door was already opening.

"Oh," the old lady said. She was stocky, had short grey curls and wore a flowery dress. She smiled up at Lestrade. "Good morning. You're back already?"

Lestrade smiled and nodded. "Yes, Mrs Banks. I've brought the detective. Just tell him exactly what you told me. Please."

"Of course. Come in then," she said, stepping aside. "Maybe I can make us all a nice cup of tea first so you can get comfortable… Or isn't there any time for that?" she added as she saw Sherlock's face.

"We've already had tea," Sherlock said curtly. "Get to the point."

When they were all settled in the old but comfortable chairs in her sitting room, she began talking. "Well, like I told this young man, I'm not quite sure which day it was, but I do think it was in the weekend, since most of my neighbours' cars were on their drives. And some time in the afternoon, I saw Ms Marsh nextdoors coming home from a walk. There was this girl with her. Not quite the type you see often in this neighbourhood, I must say, but she did seem to be quite friendly to Ms Marsh. Maybe she was just an old friend or a niece that had gone a little wrong. Anyway," she said, once again meeting Sherlock's glare with a smile, "I have no idea how long she stayed with Ms Marsh. She probably went out when I was watching my program. So I don't really know if this is any help to you, but dear Mr DI here thought it would be, so…"

Sherlock was staring at her, his mouth slightly open. "What?" he finally managed to gasp. Then he turned to Lestrade. "You called me out here for this? Some old bat's ranting about some random guest of her neighbour's. This is completely irrelevant to the case." He jumped up and walked over to the old woman, looming over her. "And probably made up too. What happened? Did one of your friends call and tell you she had spoken to the police? So you made up this story to get a bit of attention? Is that it?" With a final huff he spun around and stalked away.

The old woman was sitting with her mouth open, after having tried to get a word in after every question of Sherlock's. "But it's true," she said to Lestrade, almost in tears. "And I told you that maybe it was nothing. He didn't have to get all cross…"

John put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. He does get snappy sometimes… It's not your fault." He bit his lip as he looked up at Lestrade and then walked after Sherlock.

"A woman," Sherlock spat, when he heard John approach. "We're looking for a rapist, not a…" Suddenly he stopped and then gasped. "Oh…" He turned and smiled at John, then rushed back into the other room. He dropped to his knees in front of Mrs Banks and took her hands in his. "You are a gem," he said, eagerly. "Tell me everything. Everything you know about Ms Marsh."

…

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "I know you're convinced Marsh is somehow involved in all of this. But I cannot just order a search of her house based on her neighbour seeing a woman enter it more than 10 days ago. Or something you read in a magazine twelve years ago. Now I can request a warrant, but that will take days. Maybe even weeks."

Sherlock groaned. "You need evidence? I'll get you evidence." He turned and looked at the house next to the one they had just exited.

"No," Lestrade snapped. "You're not breaking into that house. Under no circumstances. If you do, I will not hesitate having you arrested."

"But what do you want me to do? Wait?" Sherlock's voice broke on the last word.

"That's exactly what I want you to do," Lestrade answered. "Just like everybody else. You've said it yourself: there's no rush. The killer won't strike again for several months."

"No," Sherlock shouted but then lowered his voice. "But she _will _begin disposing of evidence. May already have begun."

"_She_? Are you telling me she's the actual _killer_?"

Sherlock batted his hand. "Yes, yes, I know… Statistics and all that…"

"No… I mean… Sherlock… It's not physically possible."

"It is when you use a little imagination," John said hesitantly.

Sherlock looked down at him with a proud smile. "You have plenty of imagination when it comes to this, right John?" he said, and winked.

Lestrade looked back and forth between them, clearly not getting it.

John was blushing. "Surely not _this_," he muttered. "But, well. There are rather simple ways in which a woman can have done this."

"We need to get home," Sherlock said, pulling up his collar. "I may have to use the laptop Mycroft gave me after all."

Lestrade shook his head. "No, you're not. Tell me what's going on. Right now."

"What will it tell you?" John asked Sherlock. "Do you think you can track where she bought… something like that? I'm not sure that would count as proof..."

"Oh no," Sherlock said. "Well… that too… It will give Mycroft's people something to wonder about. No, I think I remember where I heard the name Roberta Marsh before. But I need to confirm it. And do a lot of research."

"Something like _what_?" Lestrade asked, almost pulling at his hair in frustration.

"Oh, for God's sake, Greg," Sherlock said, barely holding back a giggle. "It's called a strapon!"


	23. Chapter 23

**Day 23 - December 28th**

Sherlock had been staring at the laptop for almost an hour, occasionally scrolling or doing a quick search. Finally he looked up.

"Come take a look at this, John," he said, turning the laptop towards him.

The article was old, and not very well written. Roberta Marsh, it seemed, had spent the better part of a year researching lesser-known serial killers and the profiles police would usually work with when trying to catch them. The focus of the article seemed to be the flaws in these profiles and she spent quite a lot of space ridiculing the psychologists and other 'experts' who almost let killers get away because they were too hung up on their own supposed cleverness. The conclusion of the article was that it was all too easy to avoid capture, simply by knowing the system and avoiding falling into any of the known stereotypes.

"She evidently decided to test her theory in practice," Sherlock said. "Simple, but clever."

John shook his head as he read parts of the article. "Or maybe she had already started and is simply laughing in their faces. Just another journalist that does nothing but criticise everything… Unless she actually knows about what she's writing."

"But she didn't," Sherlock said. "That much is clear. If this was what she had to go on, she must have made a lot of slip-ups in the beginning. I'm guessing her cleverest move was to target those who would not be missed and making sure to wait long enough between killings for no one to make the connection. And of course to never have a distinctive M.O." He pointed towards the reports nailed to the wall. "None of these were killed the same way. One was shot. One garotted. Some stabbed, but never with the same weapon. One was even beaten to death. Using nothing but her hands. That one must have taken some effort. She didn't even rape all of them. And never, not once, did she leave any clues." He chuckled. "I can't wait to meet her."

John gave him an indulgent smile and shook his head again. "It's indeed not surprising that she's never been caught like this. But that will also make it a lot harder to actually prove she's our killer. We don't have much to go on."

"We will," Sherlock said. "Don't worry. I've only just begun."

…

By mid afternoon, he had determined that her professional interest in serial killer-profiling had ended barely a month before the first murder. At least the first one, according to Ally's buttons.

"She has a map," Sherlock said. "Or, at least, she had one by the time Ally was in her house. Ally must have seen it. She had excellent visual memory, which explains the map rather than any other form of communication. One glance at such a record and she could reproduce it with the killings marked within a few blocks of their original placement." He sighed. "Such an amazing job she did. I wish I could have questioned her about it."

"I guess we all wish she was still alive," John sighed. "But I don't really get why Marsh would have had a map with her murders somewhere where Ally, who probably only visited her once, could have seen it. I mean, it's not like there's really a pattern in the locations of her murders, is there?"

"Which is probably why she had the map," Sherlock said. "So she could always make sure to place her crime scenes in a way where no pattern would be visible. And…" he chuckled, "I suspect she's a bit of a show-off. Likes to look at the map and congratulate herself on her own cleverness. The proof that she beat them all. All the experts who mocked her original research and told her to 'stick to what she knew'."

"Imagine that," John said. "She won't be happy to be found at last."

"I think she's getting bored. She's been getting away with this for a decade and no one's ever picked up on it. Until she was seen. Ally must have been a real treat. Finally someone she could brag to. So she brought her home and told her all about how clever she was. Showed her the map and everything. But somehow Ally got away. I only wish I knew how."

"So otherwise she would have killed Ally right then?" John chewed his lip. "I guess there's no way we can inspect the house? I mean, not by breaking in, but by paying her a visit? She didn't see us, only the police…"

Sherlock shook his head. "She'd recognise me at once. She's a regular on my website. And I've even met her once. Years and years ago, but I think I made quite an impression. And she'll know you too. From the blog. And that Ally was found in our basement. No…" He shook his head. "_We _can't go near that house."

"Right. So what will we do?" John asked.

"Carol Hodges," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Carol Hodges. She still kind of owes us a favour. And she has an excuse to pay Roberta a visit."

"I'm not sure _sh_e'll feel she owes us a favour after… you know," John said. "And what kind of excuse does she have?"

"But she _does_ owe us a favour. You see, because of a little manoeuvring on my part, she did not face charges for hiding the gun. Nor was her affair with her attacker ever revealed. So her husband still thinks his dear wife was an innocent victim." He smiled. "Oh, and cats."

"Cats - Sherlock, you're not making sense. Why would you even go through that trouble? Usually you'd just say it's her own fault for cheating on her husband."

"Well," Sherlock grinned. "She got in touch the day after we had visited her. Made some unsubtle remarks about going to the newspapers."

"Oh," John said. "About us… oh."

"Yes. It would have been slightly inconvenient. So I talked to Lestrade and she… didn't talk."

"Okay. But still… Cats?"

"Oh John, don't tell me you forgot… We spent plenty of time looking at those dreaded things."

John rolled his eyes. "But how are they going to help us _now_?"

"Were you really paying that little attention? Remember what Mrs Banks told us about Marsh? Her one hobby is her cats. Those two giant furballs she leaves with her neighbour every time she works abroad. Maine coons."

John frowned. "Mrs Banks never mentioned they were maine coons. How do you know that?"

"The hair, John. The hair. You've still got some on your jumper. She must have taken care of the cats recently. Probably around the 13th, I guess."

"Oh." John looked down and plucked the hair off his sleeve. "I'm not going to ask when you did a study on cat hair."

…

It took a bit of convincing, but once Sherlock had asked what her husband had said about the whole intruder business, Hodges became a lot more cooperative. Marsh was, it turned out, active in some of the same online forums as herself and had, a few months earlier, mentioned that she had a male cat that might be fit for breeding. So Sherlock ordered Hodges to send her a pm, explaining how she was planning to get back in the business and was looking for a suitable stud for her coming acquisitions.

Marsh replied quickly and the two women agreed that Hodges would come to meet the animal the following day. Sherlock thanked the slightly uncomfortable woman, and then hurried back to Mycroft's house to bully his brother into lending him some top surveillance equipment.


	24. Chapter 24

**Day 24 - December 29th**

"Okay," John said into the microphone. "Take a deep breath. Keep calm and don't worry. The moment we hear or see anything going wrong, we'll be with you immediately to get you out of there. But there will be no reason at all. You have the perfect excuse to be there."

He glanced over at Sherlock and covered the microphone. "Are you sure this is a good idea? She's just too nervous…"

"It'll be fine," Sherlock said, calmly. "She's used to deception. She thrives under stress. Just wait and see, as soon as she's in there she'll be cool as a cucumber."

John blinked and suppressed a snort. "'Cool as a cucumber'? Someone watched too much telly."

"What else was I supposed to do while you had that two hour row with Harry on the phone? You wouldn't let me cuddle you."

"Yeah, okay, let's not go there," John said, frowning. "I should be focused here."

Sherlock smiled and reached out to give John's hand a squeeze as he spoke into the microphone. "Take your time once you're inside. Be pleasant and chatty. Admire the cats and small talk about shows and nutrition."

"What exactly is the purpose of this?" came the shaky voice over the speaker. "Surely I'm not there just to talk about cats."

Sherlock smiled. "No," he said. "You're there so that I can listen in. And study the images from the camera in your button."

There was a faint hiss on the line as she pressed the doorbell and then they could see the door opening and the waist of Roberta Marsh as she greeted her guest.

The women went into the sitting room and for the next hour they drank tea and chatted about cats. Roberta showed off both of her gigantic pets and Carol marvelled at them, clearly happy to once again be holding her favourite animal. She had put her jacket over the back of her chair, which gave them a great view of the room, but soon Sherlock had learned all he could from the image.

When Carol got her photo album out of her bag, Sherlock groaned and leaned his head on John's shoulder. "This was a horrible idea," he muttered, pouting a little. "I should have gone in in disguise."

John smiled and patted his hair. "This is much safer."

"Yes, but it's so… inefficient. And boring!"

"Ssh. We're distracting Carol with our talking."

"Then let's not talk," Sherlock said, pulling John into a lazy but deep kiss.

They were momentarily distracted by an exclamation from Carol as she almost dropped her teacup, but Sherlock quickly made them both forget about it.

Suddenly, John pushed him away. "Sherlock," he hissed.

Sherlock turned to look at the screen. Carol, and thus the camera, was on the move. She was walking down a narrow hallway, wearing the jacket. Over the speakers they could hear Marsh's voice, faintly as if from a distance: "It's right at the end. You can't miss it."

"Are you two done?" Carol hissed. "I did not sign up for another live show."

Sherlock chuckled. "We got distracted. It happens. Could you stop right there and turn around slowly?"

She did as he asked and Sherlock leaned close to the screen, studying it intently. "Thank you, Carol," he said. "Now go over to the painting of the girl and give the frame a nodge."

Carol walked over to the picture of a small girl, dressed in rags and huddled on a snowcovered doorstep. She did as instructed and gasped as it shifted and almost fell off the wall, revealing a short but wide crack in the wall.

"Get the camera close to that," Sherlock instructed, eagerly leaning even closer. "But don't obscure the light."

It took a bit of manoeuvring, but finally Sherlock could see the crack clearly. "There…" he said, pointing. "Do you see that small pink dot? It's chewing gum. The kind Ally always had when she could afford it. She's marked the spot for me. Good girl."

"Is everything alright?" Roberta's voice sounded from down the hall.

"Oh, yes," Carol called back, hastily putting the painting back. "I was just admiring the painting of the…" she quickly moved on to the next one, "oak tree. And the darling little country house. Is that a real place?"

"Oh yes," Roberta said, approaching. "That is the birthplace of my great grandmother. Sadly, the family lost it when she was just a little girl. I've always dreamed of becoming rich enough to buy it back, but alas… I never did."

The two women spent a couple of minutes talking about some of the other paintings and then Roberta offered to make them some more tea. Carol thanked her and headed for the small bathroom. As soon as Roberta was in the kitchen, however, she hurried back to the painting of the girl and slid it aside again. She picked her phone out of her pocket and took some pictures.

"Good thinking," Sherlock said. "Actual admissible evidence. Now put your fingers in there and see what you can find."

Carol shivered. "No…" she whispered. "I can't… There may be bugs in there. Spiders…"

"Don't be silly," Sherlock said, chuckling. "Just do it."

After a moment''s hesitation, Carol reached up and worked her fingers into the narrow crack. Then she almost cried out as the wall seemed to shift and a seam in the wallpaper began to open up, revealing a hidden door. It omitted a loud creak as she pulled it open and a clatter could be heard from the kitchen.

Sherlock jumped up. "Carol," he barked. "Pictures. As many as you can. John! We need to get in there. Now!"

John nodded and jumped out of the van where they had been hiding with Mycroft's equipment, only a few houses away from Roberta's.

Sherlock was right behind him as they ran up the steps and found the door locked. "Step back," Sherlock snapped, and he forced it open with one well placed kick.

John ran past him into the hallway, where Roberta had just smacked Carol's head against the wall and was now tightening her hands around her throat. He grabbed Roberta by the shoulders and pulled her off, struggling as the woman turned out to be stronger than he expected.

"Carol, run!" he called, and in that moment of distraction Roberta saw the chance to get up and disappear into the kitchen.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock pushed past them, following Roberta, cursing when he saw her running out the back door.

Carol was gasping for breath and slowly sank down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. Then she began to cry.

John crouched next to her and took her shoulder. "It's okay, she's gone. Don't be afraid. You did a really good job."

A few minutes later, Sherlock returned, stomping into the hallway. "She had a car in the alley," he huffed. "She's gone…" Then he noticed John sitting on the floor, his arms around a sobbing Carol. "Is that really necessary?" he snapped, and then walked past them while getting out his phone.

"She really had a fright, Sherlock," John mumbled, rocking Carol gently.

Sherlock ignored him and a moment later began rattling off the facts to a confused Lestrade who quickly sent several cars and an ambulance to the address once he understood what the detective was on about.

…

The small room, that had once been a cupboard, held not only a hand-drawn map of London with all the murder sites marked, but also not one but four different strapons, two guns and several knives of varying length and shape. Two of the blades still had traces of dried blood and were quickly bagged and taken to the lab.

Carol too was taken in for questioning, though Lestrade guaranteed it was merely a formality. He saw no reason why she should pay for Sherlock's foolishness.

"We do have enough for an arrest," he told John, while Sherlock was surveying Anderson's examination of the small room and flinging random abuse at him and his team.

"But we have no idea where she could be. Her car was spotted heading east, but now it's just… gone…"

John sighed. "That was to be expected. Maybe Sherlock has an idea. Once he's done insulting everyone."

Lestrade nodded. "I hope so. This will look so much better if we actually catch the unknown serial killer. The press will love it either way, but I would prefer for us to be the heroes rather than the fools."

John nodded and walked to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at him, then focused back on the room and the men examining every inch of it. "So you finally managed to extricate yourself?" he asked, casually.

"Extricate?" John asked, with a confused glance at Lestrade.

"You seemed pretty attached to that woman," Sherlock snapped.

"Oh," John said slowly. He suppressed a smile. "You can't seriously be jealous."

"Of course not," Sherlock muttered. "I just think it was a waste of time."

"She needed comfort after the shock. We did ask a little too much of her," John said, still smiling a little.

"She could have been more careful," Sherlock countered. As the last of Anderson's team left the room, he pressed past him and begun his own examination.

…

"Sherlock, please… I'm supposed to be home in ten minutes. You've had two hours. How much more can there be to learn about that room?" Lestrade groaned and got out his phone to send a text.

Sherlock sighed. "Much more," he said, but got to his feet. "But I can't work with you nagging all the time. Can't you just go and leave us here?"

"You know I can't do that. This is a crime scene. Well… sort of…" Lestrade shot John a pleading look.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said. "You've searched every inch of this room. I doubt there is anything you can have missed."

Sherlock turned to him with his best 'you too?' expression, but then pocketed his magnifying glass. "Fine," he said. "I suppose I can come back later."

"If necessary," John nodded.

Lestrade smiled gratefully at him. "Let's go then, boys," he said, indicating that they should precede him out the door.

After one final glance into the room, Sherlock turned and left, completely ignoring the young sergeant who was guarding the still-broken door.

"Let's go for dinner somewhere," John said when they were out.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock muttered, reaching out to take John's hand.

"It's been two days since you ate. And you still owe me dinner," John answered with a smile, giving his hand a small squeeze.

"Oh… yes…" Sherlock frowned and nodded. "What do you feel like? Chinese?"

John shrugged. "You should choose, since you're going to eat too."

"Do I have to?" Sherlock whined. "Can't I just watch you eat?"

"You need food, Sherlock. The not-passing-out rule, remember?"

"Fine… Greek then. I guess I could eat some tzatziki. And olives." Sherlock glanced around and then waved a cab over.

John smiled.

…

"Are you okay?" John asked, frowning a little as he watched Sherlock listlessly chasing an olive with his toothpick.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes. Fine," he said and looked up at John, forcing a smile.

John took his hand. "Is it the case?"

"That and…" he sighed. "I can't figure out what to get you."

John smiled. "Now don't fret about that. It's fine. You don't have to get me anything else. I loved the idea and that's enough."

"But I want to. I wanted to give you the perfect gift. And I thought I'd found it."

"My perfect gift is sitting right in front of me," John smiled, pushing his right leg between Sherlock's.

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, John. You always know just the right thing to say to make the whole thing seem completely ridiculous." He leaned over and kissed John before he could protest.

John giggled a little. "I know, but I mean it."


	25. Chapter 25

**Day 25 - December 30th**

John opened his eyes and rolled onto his back. He didn't have the feeling it was morning yet, but Sherlock wasn't in bed and probably hadn't been there all night. Blinking to get the alarm clock in focus, he saw it was almost half past 4. Yawning, he got up and padded downstairs to find Sherlock in the living room, curled up in a chair with his laptop.

John lazily draped his arms around his shoulders, sitting on the arm rest. "Wh'you doing?"

"Looking for Marsh," Sherlock said, patting John's arm briefly before focusing back on the screen.

"Hmm." John sleepily stared at the screen, but nothing really got through to his drowsy brain. "No chance you come to bed?"

"What good would that do?" Sherlock asked. "You know I won't be able to sleep before we catch her."

"Hmm. Cuddle," John shrugged.

Sherlock moved a little in the chair to make more room for John.

John smiled and snuggled closer. "Did you find anything yet?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She has no family. At all. And she has been single for more than 15 years. Her few friends all live in Wapping or close by." He closed the laptop. "She's probably at some random hotel. Under an assumed name."

"Hmm. Doesn't make it easier," John mumbled.

Sherlock shook his head. "She's got a decade's practice at being untraceable. It's definitely not going to be easy."

John nuzzled his neck and closed his eyes. "You'll find her."

"Of course I will," Sherlock said, closing his eyes to think.

John's breathing evened out, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

…

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Has sleeping in beds now become too ordinary for you two?"

John woke up with a jolt, automatically tightening his grip on Sherlock a little.

Sherlock squeaked and nearly pushed John off the chair as he sat up straight.

"Were you not on a case?" Mycroft asked with a mocking look at Sherlock. "I thought you didn't sleep while there is thinking to be done?"

John sat upright and winced as he felt what he had done to his back.

"I _was_ thinking," Sherlock snapped. "You interrupted me."

"The snoring told me otherwise," Mycroft smirked.

"Well, John wasn't thinking. Obviously."

"Oy," John said, getting up and yawning. "I'd better get changed."

"Oh, it was very helpful," Sherlock said. "The repetitiveness helped me think."

John snorted. "Glad to help," he said before going upstairs.

Mycroft kept looking at Sherlock. "I do hope you will have the case closed by tonight. Since Mummy has other commitments for New Year's Eve, she will attend dinner here, and once again your and John's presence is requested. Besides, I know for a fact that Detective Inspector Lestrade is unavailable tomorrow, and he will find it easier to unwind if that serial killer is caught."

Sherlock ignored him as he stood and stretched. "I'm going to need your car," he said. "And a portable modem for the laptop."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock went to the stairs and called. "John! Can you bring down some clothes for me? We're going back to Wapping."

…

"Okay, what are we doing here?" John asked. "You've already spent hours in there. What more can you possibly learn from this house?"

"I don't know yet," Sherlock said as he picked the lock on the back door. "If I knew, we wouldn't have to come here, right?"

John sighed. "Let's hope Greg doesn't find out we're here."

"If he does, I'm sure Mycroft will calm him down. After all we _are _doing him a favour here." Sherlock smiled as the door sprang open and went inside, looking around.

John followed. "Anything specific you want me to look at?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Put the laptop over there," he said, gesturing at the counter. "And get it online. I may need you to do some searches." He got out his magnifying glass and went out into the hallway.

Sherlock spent an hour searching through the house, occasionally ordering John to research various things, but nothing seemed to give them any indication where Marsh might be hiding. Sherlock was about to give up and had gone back to the trophy room for one last look, when his eye fell on one of the other paintings. As he studied the ancient oak tree, he smiled but then suddenly his eyes shifted a little and he gasped. "John!" he called. "I need you to check a name for me. Martin Le Pierre."

"Uhm, is 'Le Pierre' two words or one?" John asked. "Oh, wait, I think I've got him. A painter."

"Yes," Sherlock said, getting out his magnifying glass. "Tell me more."

"Uhm, he's got a website, but there's not that much on it. A few bigger works, but mainly stuff about this magazine. Apparently he makes illustrations for it? Quite a different style from his paintings."

"Let me guess. 'The Sapient'?" Sherlock said, taking the painting off the wall and bringing it into the kitchen.

"Yes, how did you… Wait, was that the magazine that had published Marsh's article?" John frowned.

"Very good John," Sherlock said, nodding. He turned the painting over and barked out a triumphant: "Ha!"

John gave him a questioning look.

"Do you remember what Marsh said about this painting?" he asked, holding it up, to show it to John.

"It was her great-grandmother's house, or something?" John said. Then his face lit up. "Do you think she's hiding _there_?"

"Well," Sherlock said, smiling smugly. "She was definitely not being completely truthful. This painting is only 15 years old. And I'm pretty sure it was commissioned. Why would she have had it made if the house was no longer in the family's possession? Her possession? But then again, if it was, then why lie about it? It seems that our dear Roberta made a mistake. She must have known she would one day need this place for hiding. Yet, she could not resist having the painting on display. Another reminder of her cleverness. But when Carol asked, she got nervous. And lied." He put the painting down and pulled John in for a kiss. "We've got her!" he said. "Phone Lestrade and tell him to go pick her up."

…

"So the killer owned the house under a false name, yet it was easy enough to find the address thanks to that painting," John concluded his story.

"And you really needed more than a night to realise that you had been staring at the answer all the time?" Mummy asked Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock mumbled. "I would have worked it out yesterday if someone hadn't been in such a hurry to get home." He was about to add something when the doorbell rang.

Mycroft frowned. "I didn't invite anyone else. Freddie, who is it?" he called.

"D.I. Lestrade's here for Mr Sherlock, sir!"

The brothers glanced at each other for a moment, then Sherlock stood up and went out to greet his guest. A moment later he returned with a flustered and vaguely protesting Lestrade.

"But…" the D.I. stammered. "I just wanted to thank…" Then he stopped as he saw the people sitting around the table. He blushed and made an awkward sort of bow. "Mrs Holmes," he said. "So good to see you again."

Mrs Holmes compassionately shook her head. "Oh, poor Greg. What are you doing here now? Didn't I warn you?"

He squirmed, seeming even more uncomfortable. "Really…" he muttered. "I only came to thank Sherlock. And tell him that Roberta Marsh has not only been detained but is cooperating. She has confessed to every single murder."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Yes, good to know. But now you have disturbed us in the middle of dinner, the least you can do is join us. Come on, have a seat. Freddie, bring a glass for the D.I. I'm sure he'd love some of my brother's wine."

Lestrade tried to protest again, but with the combined effort of the Holmes clan, his attempts were futile and he was soon seated, not only with a glass of wine, but a full plate before him.

"So," Mummy said eventually, bringing her attention back to John, "did you like the tea set?"

"Oh yes, it's beautiful," John nodded. "Thank you very much. You did get our card, I hope?"

"Yes, it was very polite of you." Mummy almost smiled. "What did you and Sherlock get each other?"

"I gave Sherlock a book end with a story for him to deduce," John answered.

"Oh. How thoughtful of you to give him the murder weapon from a forgotten case. I'm sure he loved it," Mummy said approvingly.

John chuckled. "I think he did, yes."

"But I hope that the fact that you are not mentioning Sherlock's present, does not mean he had forgotten all about it?"

"Oh, no," John smiled. "He did get me a great gift. We just didn't get to use it."

Mummy frowned.

"He booked us places for a cruise. But then the case came up, and it left without us," John explained.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said. "So you _did_ forget about it in the end?"

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, then gave a small nod and turned away.

"Don't make him feel bad about it," John smiled. "It's fine, really. He's made it up to me. And we did catch a serial killer."

End note:

And thus there is only one chapter and an epilogue to go. Yes, we realise that, until now, the summary promised you that this would be a story of 30 days. But well, we changed it. On the evening of January 1st, you will all have a new Sherlock ep, so we are sure you won't miss us in all that excitement, and that way we also have the freedom to write fics about the new series if we feel like it. So 27 days it is!


	26. Chapter 26

**Day 26 - December 31st**

"What's that noise?" John mumbled, pulling the pillow over his head. "Want to sleep."

Sherlock, as expected, wasn't even stirring yet, even though the chopping noise kept growing louder. John groaned and threw the pillow off so he could sit up and shake Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock. Mycroft didn't have time to start a war last night, right? Why is there a helicopter so close to the house?"

"What?" Sherlock groaned. "Oh… Probably…"

There was a knock on the door and Freddie's voice sounded. "Mr Sherlock, Dr Watson, it's time to go."

John frowned. "Go _where_?"

Sherlock sat up. "What? Is he finally kicking us out?" He grinned at John. "Maybe trying to outdo them last night wasn't such a good idea after all."

John snorted. "I think it was."

"Please hurry," Freddie said from the other side of the door. "The plane leaves in an hour."

"Oh," John said. "We must have annoyed him quite badly if he's sending us out of the country."

"This isn't Mr Holmes' helicopter, sir," Freddie explained. "Mrs Holmes sent it."

"What?" Sherlock jumped from the bed and rushed over to open the door. "What did you say?"

Freddie quickly covered his eyes with his right hand. "Mrs Holmes sent you the helicopter, sir."

"Why?" he inquired. "What's going on?"

"It will get you to the airport, sir. Please get dressed. A light breakfast will be ready for you to take with you."

"And why are we going to the airport?" Sherlock asked. "Are we being deported?"

"I only know you need to catch an aeroplane, sir. You and Dr Watson," Freddie said. "Your suitcases are ready too. With a lot of warm clothes and blankets."

"Oh my god…" Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then turned to John. "She's actually doing it… She's getting us on the boat!" he said, looking slightly lost.

John beamed and Freddie decided that this was the moment for a hasty retreat.

"Really?" John said. "We're going?" He leapt up from the bed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "Well, what are we waiting for? Get dressed!"

…

"The boat sets out from Tromsø by two," Sherlock said as they found their seats on the plane. "No wonder we had to get up so early."

"Well, it's worth it," John said. He hadn't stopped grinning since Sherlock had figured out why they had to get up.

"We're going to have to change planes though," Sherlock said. "This airline does not fly that far north. Which means we'll be landing in Oslo. She's cutting it pretty fine."

"Should be fine if our plane isn't delayed, don't you think?" John asked.

"We're flying east, John. Different time zone, remember?" Sherlock said and took his hand.

"Yes, alright, it's early," John said, tickling his hand in defence.

"I know," Sherlock said. "And I kept you up late." He leaned over and kissed him.

"You and a certain noisy couple… Why didn't Mycroft just bring him over to his own bedroom instead of one that close to us?"

Sherlock giggled. "Maybe because I retrieved my experiment and stored it under his bed. Or… He just felt like a change of scenery."

…

"No, really, Sherlock. In a way she helped us solve the case. And this cup is just perfectly horrid," John said happily.

"But John… The line is too long. You're going to make us miss the plane. You can buy something stupid for Harry later," Sherlock said, almost dancing on the spot with impatience.

"We still have seven minutes," John said. "And look, the line's moving."

"Yes, but that old crone in front of you hasn't got enough money for those chocolates, and she'll be making a fuss about it. Just put the cup down. Come on…"

The 'old crone' turned around and glared at Sherlock. "Now, listen here sonny…." she began, drawling with a heavy American accent.

"'scuse me," John said as he slipped past her, even though she couldn't hear him through her own rant. He quickly put down the money and grinned triumphantly at Sherlock as he left the shop to wait for him.

Moments later, Sherlock joined him, making a small bow as if accepting applause, before he took John's hand and hauled him off to their gate.

…

"It's beautiful," John said breathlessly as he looked out at the snow-covered city, almost squeezing Sherlock's hand into pulp.

"I know," Sherlock said. "But we don't have much time. The boat leaves in 20 minutes and we still have to get to the harbour." He looked around for a cab, not quite sure what they would look like here.

"I can't wait," John smiled. "This really was a brilliant idea."

"I know," Sherlock said smugly, waving a cab over. "Much better than staying at Mycroft's place, right?"

John chuckled. "Yeah. I suppose you've won. You'll get your prize later..." He got in the taxi.

Sherlock got in after him and wrapped an arm around him as they drove off through the beautiful city where the many Christmas lights were sparkling in the dark of the arctic afternoon.


	27. Chapter 27

**Epilogue: January 1st**

"Happy New Year," Sherlock said again, once they had returned to their cabin. He put the open champagne bottle on the table and pulled John close so he could kiss him.

John chuckled. "A very happy New Year, love," he answered, before deepening the kiss and opening the top buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock loosened John's bowtie. "I can't believe you wore that ridiculous thing," he teased. "You looked so fine in your tuxedo, but the bow kind of ruins it."

"Bowties are cool," John shrugged with a giggle. "And you couldn't keep your eyes off me anyway."

"That was because I know what you look like without it. And without the tux." Sherlock grinned and began unbuttoning John's shirt.

"As perfect as our whole night has been, I've still been looking forward to this part," John smiled, opening Sherlock's trousers and pushing them down.

When they had finally gotten rid of all the layers of clothing, John pulled Sherlock on top of him on the bed and kissed him again.

Sherlock let his hands explore John's sides and back, almost as if it was for the first time. "I love you," he whispered. "This year has been the best of my entire life."

John smiled fondly and played with his hair. "I love the effect champagne has on you. But you're absolutely right. It has been a fantastic year."

Sherlock giggled and pinched him. "I'm being serious… Or… I'm being honest at least… Don't mock me."

John giggled too. "I've also had a lot of champagne, you know. But I'm not mocking you. It's been my best year too. And I love you more than I can say."

"Then show me," Sherlock said and flipped them over, so that John was on top, resting between his legs.

John chuckled and almost got lost in kisses before he took the lube and smirked down at Sherlock as he pressed his fingers between the cheeks of his arse.

Sherlock spread his legs obligingly, smiling up at John.

John gave him a long, passionate kiss, meanwhile gently moving his fingers. "Ready?" he asked breathlessly.

"For you?" Sherlock asked, pulling him down for another kiss. "Always."

Note: Don't forget to read the commentary in chapter 28. Lots of silly facts about how the story came to be and even a cut scene and alternate ending.


	28. Chapter 28

**Commentary**

Note: Don't miss the epilogue in Chapter 27! This commentary is being posted at the same time.

_TLoP:_

Once upon a Christmas, or rather somewhere at the end of November, two writers had the idea to make a Johnlock Christmas special. Admittedly, that is not the most original idea that ever took shape. But all those (often brilliant) others don't have _our_ Johnlock. And thus we decided that there was indeed a need for another special.

At first, the idea was entirely different from what we have done now.

_Jlocked:_

Yes, it involved a case of possible fraud and the boys being kidnapped and spending Christmas tied together in an attic. But… We kind of never got that story off the ground. And then… I can't remember why, but I got it into my head that it would be more fun to annoy Mycroft.

_TLoP:_

You don't remember how that went? Well, I'll remind you: you, _you_, the Queen of Angst, wanted to do something fluffy. :D

_Jlocked:_

That can't be right. Check your notes again. Anyway, I was more in the mood for a laugh than for anything that involved me thinking (i.e. Sherlock solving or explaining a case). So we of course avoided that completely in _this _Christmas special. *ahem*

_TLoP:_

Poor Jlocked, always having to think. Anyway, we went off to annoy Mycroft, or rather Sherlock and John did, and in contrast to our earlier idea, this story seemed to write itself, certainly in those first chapters. We wrote every day for the date after that and it worked.

_Jlocked:_

Why we ever thought that writing a chapter a day was a good idea, is beyond me. But it _did_ work. In spite of work and other obligations, we managed to keep it up and had something new to publish every day. But then, suddenly, Christmas was upon us…

_TLoP:_

We figured that in those busy days, it would be wise to write more chapters on the days we were free, so we would have a "carefree" Christmas. That way, we managed to finish this on the 29th. By cutting a few days from the original plan, that is, but that was more because of story reasons than time.

_Jlocked:_

And because we didn't want to be writing/publishing when there was something much more exciting going on. Working through the holidays is fine, but nothing was to get in the way of that one event we have all been waiting for.

_TLoP:_

Indeed! Only a few hours to go, if you are reading this "live"...

_Jlocked:_

If not: shame on you.

_TLoP:_

At first, we just had some fun with the boys. It had been a while since we wrote "this" version of Johnlock (meaning the _What have we become?_ universe, where this story probably takes place between _When their paths crossed_ and _When their paths crossed again_). But of course Sherlock wouldn't stay happy with just a month of cuddling, shagging and little domestics. At some point we would need a case.

_Jlocked:_

We had discussed it a bit, but had not settled on anything. When suddenly Sherlock looked out of the window of a bus and… well… At the time, of course, I had no idea what he had seen. What he could possibly have seen. So I was as curious as (I hope) you were, when he rushed up to the woman about to open a door. I considered a bomb or gas leak. That her house was going to explode. But we had already had one explosion. Intruders then. But ordinary burglars would have been too boring. And then, word by word, the story of The Cheating Wife came to be.

_TLoP:_

At that point, the case could only fill one chapter, ending with the fond memory of things that can happen in a park. But it also turned out to bring us something else to tease Mycroft with, after some Christmas shopping. Speaking of which, you really don't want to have to buy a gift for Sherlock Holmes… Good thing John could store his presents with Mike for a while, so Sherlock didn't deduce what they were.

_Jlocked:_

Yes. Initially, we wanted Carol to try to hit on Sherlock and send him something wildly inappropriate. But then the concept of annoying Mycroft came up and it was hard to think of something inappropriate she could give him as a part of trying to seduce him, that he could use to annoy Mycroft. Not without the story getting very very strange at least.

Then we thought of the singing/jingling santa and threw in a bottle of champagne just to be nice.

_TLoP:_

The Santa was a success I thought, certainly with Jlocked's hip-wiggling stroke of genius.

The idea of Carol hitting on Sherlock or John returned when they were going to visit her. She would do her best to get one of them to bed with her and film the whole thing as a means of blackmail, so they wouldn't blab to her husband. But of course, Sherlock and John would eventually end up there together, resulting in some rather interesting images. Yet we had already done cameras in Mycroft's house, and there were other ways in which they could have fun there…

_Jlocked:_

She never really got a chance at hitting on either of them. As soon as they were on their own, they went at it. And again. And again. And then of course… they got caught. But… Not before I had introduced that one thing that was absolutely crucial for the climax of the story. You see, dear readers, by this point I had, of course, already planned the whole thing with Ally, Tori and Roberta Marsh, and I knew we needed something to get someone inside her house. So, I decided to make Carol a cat lover with a past in breeding and shows.

_TLoP:_

Of course you knew all that! You just managed to keep it secret from me. Well done! :P

_Jlocked:_

Yes! Shush!

_TLoP:_

Oh, we'd almost forget to talk about our Star Trek chapter. That was part of the fun of this story. It could be completely random. Just cosy things that we couldn't have fit in any "serious" story.

_Jlocked:_

I got a lot of prompts from TLoP, who is the real Trekkie here, but ended up watching most of the episode while writing, trying to imagine what Sherlock would think of the things he saw. Originally he was supposed to be fascinated by Data, but there wasn't all that much Data in the episode, so instead he ended up focusing on the errors in logic and poor choices in costumes.

_TLoP:_

And on distracting John.

_Jlocked:_

Well, that was the easy part.

_TLoP:_

Yeah… John just can't get anything done with Sherlock around.

_Jlocked:_

While Sherlock is the epitome of effectiveness when John is around. Just see how well his experiment went.

_TLoP:_

*giggles* We'll just have to write another story like this next month because he's done it _again_. (No, we're not really going to.)

_Jlocked:_

No, I'm afraid we have plenty of other stuff we're supposed to be working on.

_TLoP:_

And then Christmas approached, after John had been successful in his second row with Mycroft, winning Sherlock his phone back. Most of the gifts weren't too difficult to think of, but as I said, inventing something for Sherlock that hadn't been done in 100 other fics was becoming very difficult.

_Jlocked:_

Sherlock, of course, knew exactly what he was getting John. I just wish he would have told me a bit sooner, so I didn't have to fret about it.

Actually, I knew he would be 'giving' John something that would get them out of Mycroft's house one way or another. But a hotel room wouldn't do. He had already suggested that a couple of times and John had turned him down. Actually buying him a house in the country seemed too extreme (and has sort of been done in another fic, which I happen to love…) Finally the idea of a trip began to form, but it wasn't until Boxing Day that I finally settled on the cruise as being the most romantic yet Sherlocky option.

_TLoP:_

And how could John ever turn down something that wonderful? He'd gladly have lost the bet for that. But it was too late… Except when Mummy's presence at Christmas inspired Jlocked to make her return.

_Jlocked:_

Yes, as soon as I had the idea of the cruise, I really wanted the boys at sea, in tuxedos, on New Year's Eve (freezing their arses off). Which put quite a deadline on the case. And ended the story before planned.

_TLoP:_

But, as John had said, it was all worth it. And after all, Sherlock had gotten a perfect gift too: a serial killer. (That was the only thing I knew for quite a long time, because we had discussed that bit, as opposed to the other gifts that should be a surprise for the boys' writers too.)

_Jlocked:_

And such a surprising and fascinating serial killer. That John discovered almost out of the blue. Yay John.

_TLoP:_

Yay Harry. Yay Jlocked for thinking of Harry's gift :P

_Jlocked:_

Hehe. Yes, I'm good at useless gifts.

_TLoP:_

It was far from useless. It basically solved their case. But of course, Harry couldn't know that.

_Jlocked:_

But John got to give Sherlock the perfect present. And because of it, Sherlock missed his opportunity to give John the perfect present. That would also have gotten Sherlock out of Mycroft's house ahead of schedule.

_TLoP:_

Er, glad to hear Sherlock is grateful for his gift…

_Jlocked:_

Sherlock was ecstatic. But still felt kind of bad about not having anything for John.

_TLoP:_

Poor thing. Fortunately Mummy thought that that was unacceptable. So John got a gift, Sherlock won his bet, Mycroft and Lestrade had the house to themselves and Mycroft would stop nagging to her about Sherlock. Everybody happy.

_Jlocked:_

And Sherlock didn't have to give that speech.

_TLoP:_

John probably couldn't even go instead, since they wouldn't be home. So alright, everybody happy except Evelyn and Maggie. But they have each other, it will be fine :P

Then we only have some deleted scenes left from Mummy's visit and of course the alternate ending.

_Jlocked:_

Yes, with the way we work, sometimes things happen that we decide do not really fit into the story. But we thought you should have the pleasure anyway:

_December 24th_

"So what about you two?" Mummy asked, directing herself to Sherlock and John. "Any chance I will eventually see any grandchildren?"

John choked on his sip of wine and started coughing.

"Scientists are working on it," Sherlock said, smiling. "But they have to hurry up. John will soon be past his childbearing age."

John now managed to obtain an even fiercer shade of red than his tie.

"Shame," Mummy said.

"Perhaps Sherlock should be the one to carry the child, then," Mycroft said.

"And ruin my figure?" Sherlock asked in mock outrage. "Certainly not. How am I suppose to hang on to John if I become as fat as you?"

"Boys," John said now. "I, uh, don't think you should get your hopes up," he told Mummy.

"Well. Mycroft certainly is too old. Such a shame that the Holmes estate will get lost in the end," she said. "But surely you can lighten my heart with informing me of your wedding plans."

Sherlock and John stared at each other in equal confusion, then back at Mummy, both slightly reassured by the other's expression.

"It was much more fun when you were digging up old stories about Mycroft," John mumbled with a sigh.

Sherlock reached out and gave John's hand a soft squeeze. "Don't worry," he whispered. "You'll be recompensed too."

_Alternate version of the cut marriage talk (yes, we were quite silly that day):_

"But surely you can lighten my heart with informing me of your wedding plans."

Sherlock and John stared at each other in equal confusion, then back at Mummy, both slightly reassured by the other's expression.

"Yes, " Mummy said. "I've seen the spoilers. I know there's going to be a wedding."

"Sherlock, I should have told you… Her name is Mary," John confessed.

"Aaarrrghhhh." Sherlock defenestrated himself.

John ran to the window and looked down. "There he goes again… Let's just wait two years. He'll be back. And my wife will be dead so we will live happily ever after."

Mycroft nodded. "Oink," he said wisely.

John took a brush and started brushing the mud off his pot belly.

_Alternate ending when John jumps in the cab in Tromsø:_

The cab drove away and left Sherlock. Noooooooooooo.

Sherlock turned around and found himself a nice hotel. And got very very drunk on champagne.

John decided to enjoy the rest of the trip without Sherlock. And there was this nice lady, all alone. Her name was Mary, or something like that.

And apparently Sherlock died of the shock. But he returned two years later.

With a handsome bloke called James and a pretty boy called Ian. Had the latter's last name been Fleming, Mycroft must have introduced them, but actually that wasn't the case.

And they all shagged happily ever after.

Until John decided that punching Sherlock was a better plan.

"Oh John," Sherlock said. "I didn't know you liked it that rough."

And then they sent all the others away. And all the otters.


End file.
